Got My Eye On You
by sevenpercent
Summary: Lestrade may have only "known" Sherlock for five years when the serial suicide murders started (Study in Pink), but he met him for the first time years before, when Sherlock was only sixteen. This is the story of their journey, both before, during and after. No slash, just friendship. Chapter 69- The epilogue of The Great Man is now up
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One: 1995- Part One**

* * *

Greg drew a breath and enjoyed the moment. It was his first investigation as officer in charge of a crime scene.

He'd been called to a south London pub, just at closing time. According to the landlord who had called it in, there had been a brawl between two Russians, both of whom seemed to be cast from the same mould of tough guy- all white t-shirts and tattoos, but flashing a surprising amount of cash along with the muscles. They'd come in with a younger man, a lad actually, but he wasn't drinking, so the barmaid hadn't bothered to ask him for ID. After a few minutes, the boy had disappeared into the gents, and the two heavies then got into an argument. No, the landlord hadn't a clue what it was about; they were shouting in Russian, weren't they? The next thing he knew, the barmaid was screaming and one of the Russians was dead on the floor, blood streaming out of the back of his head. The other one bolted out the door at high speed. There was broken glass everywhere. Then the lad appeared, took one look at the dead thug and tried to scarper out the door, as well. The publican was fast enough, and big enough, to grab him in passing and bundle him into the office behind the bar, where he locked him in.

Lestrade had made a quick investigation of the scene- noted the position of the body, the blood, the broken glass. He wanted to get this right; it was his first one as a Detective Sergeant, and he needed to get a reputation as a safe pair of hands, or his governor wouldn't trust him again. As the constable who had accompanied him questioned the few customers who had not bolted at the first sign of trouble, Lestrade was quizzing the publican. There was an odd mechanical noise behind his back, then a blur of a running figure passed him. The publican grabbed but missed, and it was the constable who caught the lad with a flying tackle.

"Get off me!"

Lestrade gave the constable a hand as they hauled up the lanky teenager, whose hands werecuffed in front of him and then thrust down into an empty chair.

The publican was livid. "You bloody wanker! You've just broken the lock on my office door!"

Lestrade looked at the teenager, who wouldn't meet his eye. Dark hair in desperate need of a cut, typical clothing- a dark hoodie, skin tight jeans. He looked in need of a good meal, and a bit of TLC.

"Look at me, lad. You're not in trouble. You were in the loo when this murder went down. All I need is a little bit of information from you."

The thin shoulders stiffened a bit, and he looked around Lestrade to where the body lay.

"Isn't a murder; just an accident."

"What do you mean? Actually, no, let's back up, you came in with them, so presumably you know them."

"Know? Not exactly. I met them about fifteen minutes before arriving here." This was muttered as the boy continued to stare at a point on the floor, and Greg could only really see the top of his head, his face obscured by the long dark unruly hair.

Lestrade considered the boy. _Posh accent_, even if he was trying to mask it a bit. He wondered if he should revise his first thought that the teenager was a rent boy picked up by the pair of Russians. Public school boys didn't generally need to sell sexual favours for money. He watched the slim leg begin to jiggle; the kid was wound up tighter than a drum.

"Oh, hell, I can't be bothered with waiting for Scotland Yard's newest homicide crime scene officer to put the pieces together."

Lestrade gaped. "How do you know about my promotion?"

"Well, I hope you've never managed one before because this is a shambles, officer."

"Excuse me?" Lestrade could not keep his incredulity out of his tone. "You'd better shut it with the snide comments and just tell me what you know about the pair of Russians, or I might have a re-think and take you down to the station as an accessory."

The boy still wouldn't meet his eye, but he started talking, speaking to the floor: "Well, let's start with the fact that they're not Russians, they're Ukrainians. Off a ship from the Tilbury docks, and up to London for a quick bit of R&R before returning to the ship. You can catch up with the one who bolted by contacting the ship- Zelenko is the name of the vessel- he's too stupid to go anywhere but back to mother, that's м_а_ти, in both Russian and Ukrainian by the way. And it wasn't murder."

The blistering pace of delivery surprised Greg, as did the monotone in which it was delivered. _Oh! Is he Asperger's? _His nephew had Asperger's and a fixation with car models that was encyclopaedic in depth; he didn't like eye contact either. How many teenagers had Lestrade come across called cargo ships by the proper name of 'vessel'? This boy sitting with his eyes cast down at the floor was becoming more unusual by the minute.

"Ok, let's assume I agree that you met them fifteen minutes before walking through the door. Where and why did you meet them?"

"How does that matter? It's irrelevant." He kept his eyes firmly on the floor.

_Definitely public school, using a polysyllabic word like irrelevant, when most teenagers are only capable of grunting._ Lestrade decided on a tactic- "Look at me when you speak, boy. It's rude if you don't."

This brought a snigger in reply. "Oh, sergeant, your class prejudices are showing. Will you report me to the headmaster if I don't?"

Annoyed, Greg reached down and grasped the chin, feeling the boy flinch (_yeah, my nephew doesn't like to be touched either_). The DI gently lifted it up so he could see into his eyes properly for the first time. And took in a breath. The face was dominated by a pair of cheekbones and cupid's bow lips; the combination was unconventional yet undeniably beautiful. The teenager before him was in that almost magical place, half way between a boy and a man, with that heady mixture of innocence and street wise cockiness. _Jailbait- for sure_. And Lestrade also realised something as he looked into unusual grey green eyes with pupils so dilated that it was almost painful. _High as a kite, too._

"What's your name?"

"That's irrelevant, too."

"Not anymore, you're coming back to the station with me, because you are under the influence of drugs. What's your name and have you got any ID on you?"

The boy pulled his head out of Greg's grip and looked back down at the floor. He took a deep breath and then replied; "Lars Sigerson- Uni ID's in my back left pocket. Sorry I can't get it out for you, but my hands seem to be otherwise engaged." He lifted his handcuffed wrists.

Greg pulled the ID out of a pair of impossibly tight jeans, and wondered with a pang what had driven this man-child to such dire straits as to be offering himself in exchange for drugs, as that was likely to be what he was doing in the toilet at the time of the murder. At first glance, the ID seemed to verify what the youth had said. The photo made him look older than he actually was in the flesh- 18 according to the date of birth stated. That made him suspicious and he examined the ID very, very carefully.

"Almost good enough- next time spend more money on the quality of the backing plastic. UCL uses a special supplier so it's hard to counterfeit. Now do you want to tell me your real name?"

The boy shot him a filthy look. "Irrelevant, Sergeant. As I said before, my name is not going to make one bit of difference to your reputation if you present this case to your DI as a murder. It's a simple accident, not a murder, if you could be bothered to stop harassing me and actually look at the evidence staring you right in front of your face." He looked over at the body, sprawled on the floor.

Lestrade frowned. "What the hell do you know, you weren't even in the room at the time."

"I don't have to be, Sergeant, all I have to do is observe. Just what do they teach you at Hendon these days?"

"OK, smartass. Tell me what I am not seeing." Greg crossed his arms in front of his chest and challenged the teenager to deliver. Any youngster who knew that the Metropolitan Police Academy was based In Hendon was either someone with a criminal record or very clever indeed. He wanted to know which it was.

The lad looked up at him now, connected properly. "Uncuff me, and I will show you."

Greg just laughed. "Not on your life, matey, or should I call you 'Lars' even though that clearly isn't your name. I wasn't born yesterday. You don't need hands to tell me what you think I am missing. So, gimme- or we'll continue this conversation down at the station after I've processed you as an accessory."

The boy scowled. "Little point in that, Sergeant; as you quite rightly said, I have an alibi as I was elsewhere at the time."

"Then I'll add criminal damage to the charges, given that fact that you broke the door lock on the way out of the publican's office. And how do I know that you and the guy who ran off weren't in cahoots? I can still arrest you on suspicion, so I suggest a little co-operation would come in handy just about now."

Those cupid's bow lips pursed, as the man-child decided what to do. Then he huffed, put his feet under the chair and leveraged himself up to a standing position. He strode over to the body, being careful to avoid disturbing the broken glass or the blood pool.

"Just mind where you are walking, sunshine, or there will be hell to pay if you muck up the evidence."

"Relax Detective; don't get your knickers in a twist." He stood and stared at the body sprawled before him. The Russian, _no, the Ukrainian_, Greg unconsciously corrected himself and then wondered why he was believing the kid's word on this.

The youth put his cuffed hands together as if in prayer, tucked them up under his chin, and crouched down. He was looking, really looking at the sprawled body. Lestrade wondered how many dead men the youngster had seen. He showed no signs of being overawed or grossed out, despite the amount of blood. The Sergeant had seen constables pass out at a crime scene when first faced with a bloody body, but this boy seemed utterly at ease. No, it wasn't the best description- he looked absolutely fascinated.

The constable drifted over, his questioning of the customers completed. Greg gave him a sideways glance, somehow reluctant to take his eyes off the boy's processing of the scene in front of him. "Anything?"

"Nah, somehow they were all looking any which way except the right way when the actual attack happened." Now the constable was staring at the boy. "What's he doing, Guv?"

"Haven't a clue, Jones, but he says it isn't murder, and I'm curious as to why he would say it."

The constable's airwave radio crackled into life. "Track team four, are you in need of a SOC team?"

"Guv? Do I tell them yes, given it's a homicide?"

"Wait." Lestrade considered. If it was an accident, he'd be laughed at by the station as being 'over-eager' and calling out resources when they weren't needed. On the other hand, if it was a homicide, then he'd be in trouble for believing the word of a kid. _Damned if I do, damned if I don't. _

The boy stood up, nodded to himself and then turned back to Lestrade and the constable. "Right. You can tell the station to forget the forensics team. This was an accident." This was delivered with utter conviction.

"Care to explain to us why, oh enlightened one?" The sarcasm dripped from Greg's tongue.

The youth frowned at the two policemen. For a moment, he looked genuinely disappointed, as if he expected them to applaud his conclusions because it had been a game set by them, in full knowledge that it had always been an accident.

Finally, the penny dropped. "Are you _really_ so blind, the two of you?"

Jones erupted. "Just shut it with the criticism, or tell us what you see. Simple- mess around any longer and we'll finish this at the station." The constable was really annoyed.

"Oh, well- OK… it's crime scene deduction for dummies then. Let's start with the position of the body. If he had been pushed or hit, then the body would be much further away from the bar stool. This isn't a push, it's a fall- he's less than two feet away from where he was sitting. Second, look at the wound."

Constable Jones snarled, "Of course we can't see the wound, you clot; it's on the back of his head."

"Precisely!" The boy gestured at the corpse. When the two policemen looked blank, he rolled his eyes and said, "Christ, it's a wonder that you lot ever solve a single crime. OK- the point is that the injury is on the back of his skull where he hit it on the chair- yes, that one overturned over there, on the way down. The force of the collision would push the chair out of the way, so it ended up over there instead of under the crewman. Check it out, you'll find blood and hair on the back rail; that's where he must have hit it for it to end up over there. And that chair is the reason why there is so much broken glass- it smacked into the table there and knocked the tray of empties on the floor. For God's sake, just look- it if was a blow from the other Ukrainian to the back of the head, the body would be in a different position entirely and there'd be blood spatter. There's none- and I'll bet not a single witness saw a weapon in the hand of the guy who ran out."

Lestrade worked it through in his imagination. Actually, it wasn't as daft as it sounded. The chair, the broken glass and the position of the body all added up. The boy inspected the chair, and looked up nodding. "There's definitely hair and blood, too."

Jones piped up. "Guv, this is ridiculous. Nobody saw the actual blow that killed the guy; least of all this kid, who was in the loo at the time!"

Lestrede wasn't so quick to dismiss the idea. "If I were to accept what you say, then how do you explain the argument between the two men, and why would one of them fall off his stool and bash his head?"

The boy looked down at the floor, silent. Lestrade just looked at him. Of course, he came across young homeless junkies all the time; you couldn't be a London policeman and not be faced with the problem on a daily basis. But there was something so vulnerable in the youth standing before him that chilled the Sergeant right to the bone.

He decided to fill in the blanks. "Alright, I think they were arguing about you. That is, which one of them was going to go first with what they intended doing to you. Maybe you made then them hand over the first half of the payment, and went off to the loo to get on with it while they made up their minds which one was going to follow you in there first. Am I right?"

"If you were, hypothetically speaking , then having got the drugs, why didn't I just scarper when they were having their disagreement and taking their time?"

"It was only half. You'd have figured they'd produce the second bag when they were done. And anyway, it's easier to tolerate if you're already high before they begin."

"Sergeant, I meant what I said earlier. All of that is actually irrelevant; it had no effect on the outcome. The one who fell off his stool, his name was Vladimir, don't know his patronymic, but the ship will. Anyway, he was suffering from MDD- that's Mal de Debarquement. It's a disorder of the inner ear that affects the balance of people who've just got off a ship. Think of it as 'land sickness' –the opposite of sea sickness. Dizziness, nausea and real instability. He was complaining about it before we walked in here. Put him on a bar stool and it's an accident waiting to happen."

Lestrade listened and then raised his hand. "Ok, just how the hell did you know this? Do you speak Ukrainian or something? And why would he tell you?"

"No, I don't speak Ukrainian but I do speak Russian, and so do they- it's a Russian registered ship out of Odessa. That's how they picked me up. And I spotted the MDD because that's what I do, notice people and what's wrong with them. "

Jones looked askance. "OK, Lars, Ivan or whatever your name is, why'd the other guy run?"

"Because he didn't want to be caught with the drugs, did he?! It would cost him his job. He was the one who had the second bag. So, he just cut out rather than have to talk to the police. In the Ukraine, they aren't as polite as you two are." With this, the boy smiled, as if hopeful that by helping the two out, they might be more lenient on him.

Lestrade thought it through and then made up his mind. "Jones, call the ambulance service and tell them that we have a stiff to collect and pronounce, then it's off to the morgue. An autopsy will confirm if the cause of death is blunt force trauma from the chair- certainly the blood and hair on the chair makes it likely. Grab an evidence bag and collect it, to be sure, but I think this is an accidental death."

"So, you'll let me go, then? I've just rescued you and your constable from an embarrassing mistake, not to mention saving the police force the cost of a forensic investigation. And I've given you the name and location of the guy who can corroborate the story. That's enough surely."

"Enough for what?" Lestrade looked at the young man with a stern eye.

"Enough for you to look the other way while I walk out of here. After all, I wasn't involved in the incident. And no crime actually took place. I didn't pay for drugs, and they didn't get any sex, so let's call it a night and let Constable Jones here avoid a tedious exercise in paperwork. "

Lestrade smiled. "Nope. I've got principles. And someone like you should not be in the state you're in, or alone on the streets. Have you got someone I can call?"

"No."

"Really?" Most homeless people don't have a cut glass accent and a posh school vocabulary. Even fewer of them speak Russian, I'll wager. So come on, cough up a parent's phone number."

"No. My parents are dead. I'm on my own. And I'm fine. There's no need to waste any more of your time, think of the paperwork you'll be spared."

"PC Jones, escort this young man to the patrol car. I will drive him to the station and process him. You wait here for the ambulance and get the documentation. I'll send the car back to pick you up."

The boy tried one last time. "I can't believe your ingratitude! I solve your case for you, spare you looking like a prat in front of your superiors. And this is the thanks I get? This is police harassment. I've not committed a crime. I've not been involved with anyone committing a crime. You can't hold me."

"A fake ID, probably under-aged and under the influence of drugs. I'm not going to hold you in a cell, but I will notify social services, and keep you at the station until they can pick you up. As your name is probably fake, I will see how far I can get with the photo by running it on police files."

_Would I let my nephew alone on the streets of London at night? Not a chance. _Lestrade continued, "Actually, forget it- Jones, I'll take him myself. Let's go." And with that, he pulled the young man along with him out the door and to the car.

Because it was late, social services asked the station to fax the photo, but keep the boy over night; they'd send someone to collect him in the morning. Lestrade parked him in an interrogation room, bought a sandwich and coffee from the machine and left them sitting in front of the kid, locking the door behind him. Lestrade sat down at his desk and started the incident paperwork. At one point, he looked in on the lad through the mirrored wall. The coffee cup was empty but the sandwich was untouched. The boy sat scrunched up in the chair, his long thin arms wrapped around his knees, which were drawn to his chest. He looked a lot younger now, and rather forlorn. Greg thought about going home, but worried that Social Services would collect the boy before he got back into work. After what he'd seen of the of young man's intelligence, he didn't rate their ability to hang onto him for any length of time unless they were properly briefed. So, he decided to take a nap at his desk.

Four hours later, a man in a three-piece suit arrived.


	2. Chapter 2

**1995- Part Two**

* * *

"Detective Sergeant Lestrade, I am grateful for your role in bringing my brother into the police station. Am I right to assume that he has not been charged, nor is he likely to be, with any offence regarding that barroom accident?"

Lestrade eyed the immaculately turned out figure in front of him. In contrast, he felt rumpled and wrinkled after a day and a night in his own clothes. It was 5 am and a time when very few people were impressive. He had to admit, however, that the young man in front of him was probably the exception that proved the rule. He was almost two inches taller than Greg, and held himself with poise and confidence than seemed at odds with his youth. Thinning chestnut hair, cleanly shaven (_I must look a mess with a 24 hours' worth of stubble_) and waiting patiently for the DS to respond.

"If you are his brother, then you can tell us his real name."

"Of course. I am Mycroft Holmes, and his name is Sherlock."

Lestrade thought briefly about parents who have little sense when it comes to naming their children.

"So, how did you know that we were holding him here?" Lestrade tried to sound stern, but was afraid that it probably came out more tired than intimidating.

"It's my job to notice these things, Detective Sergeant." He handed over an ID, which Greg read, and then looked up again suddenly at the young man. "Oh? So you just happened to be looking at a database search of images and spotted his photo going by?"

The elder Holmes' eyes narrowed a bit. With a brittle smile, he answered, "It's a simple exercise to set up an image alert on one of our surveillance networks; it's done all the time. And, he has been missing for six months, without the police being able to find him. The Missing Persons teams are so overstretched, don't you think? "

Lestrade wondered how an autistic teenager could be allowed to go missing for as long as six months. "Had a falling out with the parents, did he?"

"Our parents are dead, as he probably told you. I am his legal guardian, a fact which I am positive he would not have mentioned. He is classified as a vulnerable young person, if you were not aware of that fact."

"Actually, I figured it out, which is why I brought him in. That and the fact that he was high on drugs at the time."

There was a sigh in reply. "That fact was not included in the police report of the incident."

Now it was Lestrade's turn to sigh, as he gestured to the ID in his hand. "I suppose this entitles you to read such a file without my permission?"

"Yes, it does. And I am going to suggest that it is time we stop this discussion and that you allow me to collect my brother and take him home." This was delivered in a clipped tone of voice that belied his age, and spoken with an authority that was used to being obeyed. He collected his ID from the DI's hand.

Lestrade started to feel a bit sorry for the young lad in the interrogation room. "What makes you think he wants to do that?"

"I no longer care what he _wants_, Detective Sergeant. It's what he _needs_ that motivates me. And that will include a substantial period of time in a rehab clinic, where some of his 'issues' will be dealt with properly through medical and psychiatric supervision."

_He's a cold fish. Mind you. I expect in that job of his it is an occupational hazard. _ And he found himself wondering how he would have managed to be responsible for his nephew when the same age as the man now standing in front of him. Suddenly, he found himself feeling a bit more sympathy for both of the Holmes brothers, neither of which was probably suited to having to deal with each other the way these two clearly had to.

Greg sighed again, rubbed his tired eyes, and said "OK, I give up. I'll take you to him. You'll have to sign paperwork so Social Services don't go ballistic when they show up in a couple of hours to discover he's gone."

oOo

As Mycroft walked into the interrogation room, Greg was watching through the mirrored window. He felt some compassion for the lad, as well as gratitude for saving him the embarrassment of declaring an accident as a homicide. And, he admitted to some curiosity about their encounter.

The younger brother did not look up, or even move to acknowledge that someone had entered the room. He still sat with his head buried in his arms, his knees tucked up on the chair.

"Sherlock."

There was no reply.

"There are questions that need answers, but now is not the time or place to do this, Sherlock. Come home with me now, and we will discuss in private what happens next."

This provoked a snort of derision. "Want to bet?" He raised his head, but looked straight at the window rather than his brother, as if he knew that Greg was watching. "He sounds oh so reasonable, doesn't he, Detective Sergeant? It's a good act. The moment we are out of the door, he will take me straight to an institution- all ostensibly in my very 'best interests', he will assure you. There I will be deprived of my liberty, and force-fed drugs that will be designed to eliminate any hope of being who and what I am. Such is his .._brotherly love." _

"Stop this, Sherlock. I am not the enemy here. This...escapade... of yours has got to stop. Just look at yourself." And Greg saw the elder brother looking intently at the younger, who still refused to make eye contact.

The youth's face was blank, unreadable. "Go away, Mycroft, and leave me alone."

"You know I can't do that. I am not prepared to have you spend another night on the streets, indulging your drug habit, and the despicable practices that are required to sustain their expense. You are better than this, Sherlock."

That made the boy look up in anger. "Who says? I don't care at all what you think, or what anyone thinks of me. Just piss off, leave me alone. I'm fine on my own."

Mycroft and Sherlock locked eyes for the first time. The older one just said softy "You know I can't do that, because you're not 'fine'."

"What do you know about it, _brother_? You haven't the foggiest idea what is good for me. You weren't there when he locked me up the first time, but you're going to do it again. Like Father, like son. I can tell you now it won't work, but you don't give a damn what I think. Never have, never will. I'm just an embarrassment, a genetic tie that has no real meaning. If you do let me go, I swear no one will know who I am, it won't come back on you. Your reputation won't be damaged, I promise."

Mycroft stood unmoved and unmovable. His silence was answer enough.

The youth's shoulders slumped in defeat. "I'm so tired of all this; Mycroft, just let me be, please?"

"No. This is not open to negotiation, Sherlock. You know that. Bow to the inevitable."

The boy's grey green eyes had filled with tears, and a few spilled over to trace down those cheekbones. There was a tremor in his voice as he said quietly, "You'll be the death of me, Mycroft."

Watching, Greg's reaction surprised him. He felt the boy's distress, and wondered how his brother's arrival could so effectively derail all the cocky self confidence that Sherlock had shown at the crime scene. _There is a history here between these two that I don't get. I'm not sure I like it, either._

Mycroft closed the distance between him and Sherlock and reached down, taking both of the bony wrists in a firm grip. "Enough of that now, we've leaving." He pulled his brother to his feet and led him out the door of the interrogation room.

Back in the corridor, the DI watched the two Holmes brothers leave the station. Greg realised that there wasn't a thing he could do to stop it from happening. But, that didn't mean he didn't worry about it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Seven Years Later (2002 Part One)**

* * *

The call came into the New Scotland Yard via the 999 service: a crime in progress. The control dispatcher said it had been phoned in by a victim of grievous bodily harm, who was being held against his will and feared for his life.

DI Lestrade sighed. _Welcome to another Friday night in London_. It could be a hoax call; too many false alarms turned out to be a swarm of drunken youths celebrating the end of their week with too much booze, when horsing around turned into a "let's wind the police up a bit". At least there was no football match on; that usually made life worse.

"Play me the call."

The recording started:

"What service please?"

It was a quiet baritone voice that replied. Not panicky, rather clear. "Police- this is an emergency. There is a crime in progress at the Penthouse Flat, Warner Yard, Clerkenwell. Linked to the Islington murder four weeks ago; GBH already occurred, homicidal intent unambiguous. DI Lestrade, Hurry." Then the silence of a disconnected line.

The wording took Lestrade by surprise. "Have we got anyone undercover out there? Whoever this is knows the code." The reference to Islington was enough to attract attention as the murder had not been widely reported, but it was the GBH with homicidal intent comment that confirmed it as something highly relevant to the Homicide and Serious Crime division. And calling for Lestrade by name was another give-away clue. "Could you trace the call?"

"Too short. All we know is that it was made from a mobile."

oOo

The building was one of those seriously posh blocks that went up in the 1990s, all along the edges of the Square Mile. Every one of the flats was probably worth over a million pounds. _Probably all owned by rich foreigners or City wide-boys._ Lestrade's London had changed over the past ten years. Bankers' bonus money and wealthy immigrants made London property prices soar. The people who lived in this block were raking it in, clearly.

"Who's in the penthouse flat?" The DI barked the question at the security guard in the marble-clad lobby, and then said "don't you _dare_ pick up that phone. Just answer the question."

"No one. That is, it's a property company that leases it out occasionally to visiting bankers for a couple of days at a time."

"And who's up there now?"

"Some bankers having a party, celebrating some deal or other. I can't keep track of them, and the company doesn't want me to know who is using it; lots of hush-hush deals. You know these City types. As long as they show me their keys, I let them in."

Lestrade left a constable at the front desk, to watch both the front door and the guard, ensuring that he didn't make a call to tip off the occupants.

Three minutes later, the DI and three constables stood outside the door of the penthouse flat. "Open up, Police!" Lestrade had a loud voice, and knew that whoever was inside would have heard it.

He turned to the constables. "Give 'em a count of five, then use the ram."

A voice came from inside the apartment. "Wait, I'm coming."

_Sounds foreign; calm, not panicky. _ There was a faint sound of people moving inside, then footsteps approaching the door. It opened on a safety chain and a face peered around the door. Lestrade flashed his warrant card. "I said, open up. We're police investigating a crime in progress."

The chain came off and the door opened to reveal a man in his fifties, wearing a business suit but no tie. "There must be some mistake, Officer. There is no crime going on in here- just a group of people enjoying a private dinner." His English was excellent, but clearly not his native tongue. _Italian?_ Lestrade saw the cut of the expensive suit, the soft leather shoes, the Rolex oyster watch and the fact that the man had a fashionable tan, despite it being mid-November.

"I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade, Metropolitan Police. We were called about a crime in progress at this address, no mistake, Mister…?

"Georgio Vanucci, Detective Inspector; I'm Chief Executive of Arnaulti Bank. That's in Milan, in case you aren't familiar with Italian banks."

_In other words, be very careful little policeman if you are going to accuse someone as exalted as me of any sort of crime._ There was a moment of awkward silence before Lestrade smiled. "I'm sorry to intrude like this, but I must insist on searching the premises."

He left one constable on the door to make sure no one left. When he and the other two constables left the penthouse's foyer and entered the open plan living room, Greg saw the remains of the party. A dining room table lit by candles with five place settings showed the debris of a top class meal. One plate of food looked untouched; Lestrade's glance took in the Michelin star presentation. A half dozen empty wine bottles on a side table screamed expensive vintages and quality chateaux. The kitchen area was empty excepting a few delivery boxes; the meal had been catered.

There were two men sitting either side of a fireplace, where gas flames were casting a soft glow onto the glass and chrome coffee table with four glasses of what smelled like brandy. The two men were jacketless, without ties, but still wearing business trousers. Both looked curiously at the DI, if a little alarmed at the uniformed constables.

Vanucci gestured to the one on the left. "May I introduce Georges Versault, of Limoux Bank, and that is Balázs Szamuely; he's Managing Director of the Capital Markets division of Magyarsa Bank in Budapest. Gentlemen, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade, from the Police, who is under the mistaken belief that there is a crime going on here."

The men looked puzzled and also a little annoyed. "Is this how the English treat foreign visitors, Detective? Gate-crashing a private party seems rather extreme- something I might expect in Russia or the third world, where the police are always on the hunt for a bribe." This was said by the bigger of the two seated men, the Eastern European. His accent was thicker, and he looked a little flushed in the face.

That annoyed Lestrade. "Who else is in the flat?"

Vanucci gestured toward a door off to the side. "We sent the catering staff home hours ago. My colleague, Simon Williams, the CEO of an American hedge fund is in that bedroom, using what you British call 'the loo'. He'll be out in a moment. "

"Then you won't mind if we have a look around, will you?"

"Would it make any difference if I did mind?" the Italian asked mildly.

"Yes, it would mean that I would have to leave a constable here to make sure that none of you left the flat or made any phone calls while I go get a warrant, which I can assure you I will get on the basis of the phone call received."

The tanned banker pursed his lips for a moment, and then shrugged. "By all means, take a look, if by doing so you will leave us alone more quickly."

Lestrade nodded to the two constables, one of who went down the corridor towards the other bedrooms, while the other headed for the room where the American was supposed to be. Lestrade looked out the plate glass windows, and asked Vanucci casually, "what's out there?"

The Italian looked out. "London?" The Hungarian smirked.

Lestrade's eyes narrowed. "I meant in terms of the apartment."

"I couldn't honestly tell you, Detective Inspector. We've been in the flat for about four hours enjoying our dinner. It's too cold to venture out on the patio decking. Your English climate, I fear, is not very agreeable in November."

The constable re-appeared with an American in tow. From his button down shirt to his tasselled loafers, he looked the part. "Hello, I'm Simon Williams. What seems to be the problem, officer?" The accent was New York, like something out of a Hollywood film.

The PC behind the banker gestured with his head back at the bedroom. Lestrade replied, "Well, excuse me, gentlemen, but I need to take a look at that room."

Even a quick glance aroused his suspicions. Something had taken place in here. The sheets on the bed were in a tangle, and there was a scent of cigarette smoke and sweat. The double patio doors from the bedroom were closed, but it felt cold in the room. There was no duvet or blankets on the bed, which made it look odd to the detective. The bathroom gave up no clues; the toilet had been flushed recently and the cistern was re-filling. The PC crouched down beside the toilet bowl and ran his finger over some powder on the floor. "Talc?" He lifted a finger and sniffed, then tasted delicately. "Nope, it's coke. Probably flushed the lot down the loo to get rid of the evidence."

When Greg returned to the living room, the four men were now standing, uneasy. "Gentlemen, we've found evidence that drugs have been in this flat." He looked down at the coffee table and saw the faintest trace of a line of powder. "And that suggests you've been enjoying some of them, too." He walked up to the bankers and took a good look at their faces. The Hungarian showed clear signs of being high- his pupils were constricted, despite the dim light in the room, and his face was flushed. American and the Frenchman seemed to be under the influence of something but less affected- it might be the alcohol. Only the Italian seemed cool as a cucumber.

"Detective Inspector, I am sure that this is some sort of mistake. We've been having a private party. If there are traces of drugs in the flat, they must have been here before we arrived. I assure you that apart from a lot of some rather nice wine, we have not consumed anything illegal."

The Hungarian bristled. "Surely, the police had better things to do than to harass four senior bankers. Shouldn't you be pursuing terrorists or organised crime?" There was something just that little bit snide in his tone that riled Lestrade.

Something wasn't right, but he was having trouble putting his finger on it. Something was nagging at the back of his mind. Greg took a good look at the Hungarian. The other three men looked like what he would expect, after a long day. _Shirt- that's it; looks too clean, must be new on._ The wrinkles in the other men's shirts were not on the Hungarian's shirt, which looked like it had come straight from the cleaners.

"Mister Szamuely, can you tell me why you changed your shirt?"

He just looked at Greg as if he was an utter moron. "What the hell business is it of yours? I changed for dinner; after a hard day making lots of money, I took a shower and changed."

"Then you won't mind if we see the shirt you were wearing?"

"I sent it to the laundry."

It was just that tiny bit too glib. Lestrade's radar suddenly flared. "Constable Hawkins, take a look in that bedroom and find me that shirt."

Now the Italian decided to get involved. "Detective, I do think this has gone far enough. We have answered your questions. You have seen the apartment; there is no one here but us, and there is no crime being committed. I am going to have to ask you to leave now. If you want to ask further questions, you will need to talk to our lawyers."

The DI did not reply, but stared intently at the Hungarian. "May I see your hands, please?"

The Italian banker now stepped between Lestrade and the Hungarian. "Really, Detective, I must protest. You are in danger of harassing us. You have no cause to examine us like this."

At that point, the constable returned with a crumpled pink shirt. Hawkins shook it out in front of the men, so that everyone could see the blood droplets splattered across the front.

"Cut yourself shaving then, Mr Szamuely?" Lestrade asked. "Or were those bruised and bloodied knuckles of yours the result of hitting someone?"

The second constable returned from the far bedrooms. "Nothing in them, Guv- no sign of anything suspicious."

"Check outside on the deck, Hawkins. Take a _good_ look around."

There was something nagging at the back of Lestrade's mind. Something he had seen that didn't add up. _Five places set at the table, one untouched. _ "Mister Vanucci, just who was the other place at the table for?"

The Italian glanced back at the table. "Oh, a colleague who didn't show up. Phoned in to say he couldn't make it. Family issues or something. We'd been waiting long enough, so we started without him."

The constable came running back in. "Sir, I've found something- come quick."

Lestrade followed the man out onto the deck, and then the PC shone his torch over the side of the metal railing. Some ten feet below, on the roof of the apartment below the penthouse, there was a duvet- with what appeared to be something wrapped up in it. Even from the balcony, Lestrade could see a dark stain, which his imagination filled in as blood. "Get the ambulance service here _now_, and arrest these men; and figure out how to get down there onto that roof."

After that, things exploded into action. Back-up was called, the bankers were read their rights and cuffed, and the security guard at the front desk hauled upstairs to tell them how to get down onto the roof. PC Jones went down a small ladder around the back of the patio surrounding the penthouse, and worked his way onto the roof. In the torchlight, he pulled the duvet away to reveal a naked man.

"Is he alive? "Lestrade shouted, leaning over the balcony to get a better look.

"I've got a pulse."

"Wrap him back up, Constable, and stay with him until the medics get here."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four: Seven Years Later (2002 Part Two)**

* * *

"You have questions."

Lestrade looked at the bruised face, the eye that was almost swollen shut, and wondered where the calm words came from. Most of the victims he'd rescued from the kind of beating that the young man had sustained would be crying in pain, disoriented, confused and certainly not up for any serious questioning. He'd learned over the years that most of what was said in the aftermath of such an assault would be unusable.

"Yeah, let's start with an odd one. I know you, don't I? You seem familiar."

There was a soft snort. "You have a poor memory if seven years is enough to make you forget a face."

"Hmm. Well, the face I'm looking at now isn't exactly a pretty sight, you'll have to admit. You don't need a mirror; the pain should tell you what you look like. So unless you were battered half to death last time we met, I need some more clues."

"Your first crime scene as DS officer in charge, a pub with a dead Ukrainian that everyone thought was a murdered Russian."

_Oh._ Last seen as a skinny sixteen year old, the man on the bed was now a good seven inches taller. "Give me a break; you were only a kid."

No reply. "So, what's your name then?" The boy he brought back to the station in 1994 had been picked up by an older brother, a remarkably calm twenty three year old, immaculately dressed. Lestrade remembered that.

"You _really_ can't remember the name?"

"Give me a break." The detective inspector ran his hand over his tired eyes. "I've arrested hundreds of people since then, interviewed ten times as many people. If I could dig out my notebook from that long ago, I'd find you, never fear."

A smile quirked the left side of the young man's bloodied lip. "Lars Sigerson?"

_Oh, that was the fake ID_. "Now I remember! Holmes, isn't it?"

"Well, you've had a daily reminder staring you in the face since 1986. The Home Office Large Major Enquiry Service*. Can you remember the first name?"

"Your brother's was easier- Mycroft. That stuck; don't know why, but it did."

The young man's smile vanished. "That's because he's such a smug git. He always leaves an impression."

"Sher…no, not Sherman, something else- yes, got it now- Sherlock Holmes."

"Well, that was amusing. Got anything of any real significance to ask, or are you just passing the time of day?" His eyes closed.

Lestrade found himself smiling. "Well, seven years hasn't improved your patience any, that's clear. I distinctly remember you being a sarky bastard back then, too."

The young man on the bed did not reply.

"So, want to tell me what you were doing in a penthouse getting the shit beaten out of you?"

"Investigating a crime- the Islington murder to be precise. Something your lot has singularly failed to make any progress on over the past four weeks."

Lestrade blinked_. Since when does a civilian investigate a crime?_ "So, tell me why would someone like you do such a thing?"

"I knew Miles Stedman- that's the Islington victim, in case your memory is as bad with his name as it was with mine. It bothered me that you idiots weren't connecting any of the dots as to how and why he was murdered."

"So, you're suggesting that the guys that beat you up had something to do with it?"

"Nope."

Lestrade looked a bit nonplussed. "Then you made a mistake and they got bolshie about it?"

"No."

The DI now looked confused. "Are you making no sense at all because you're suffering from concussion? Should I come back tomorrow when you are more coherent?"

The tall brunet sighed. "Bring me a laptop and I will show you why you are an idiot; you're asking the wrong questions, Detective Inspector."

"I'm not sure I have time for playing twenty questions, Mr Holmes. I have four suspects in the station, and I need to make sure that we've collected the forensic evidence to convict them of GBH and drug abuse. Do I really need this aggro tonight?"

"Oh, go ahead, then. Confirm my worst expectations of you, pass up the opportunity to solve the Islington murder and the chance to wrap up at least a dozen other cold cases that have been sitting collecting dust in New Scotland Yard and the City of London's police HQ for the past four years. Or, you could bring me a laptop and let me show you just how wrong you are."

Greg looked at the beaten body lying on the bed. Seven years ago, the kid had proved to be right about the Ukrainian's death, and that alone made him curious to know more. On the other hand, he had enough to make a case, which is what he was paid to do. Why should he waste more time here tonight? Yet, the man lying in the bed was the victim, and his statement would need to be taken. He could send a constable to do just that, or come back later himself. Lestrade decided.

"OK, just hold that thought. I'll be back later tonight, with a laptop and I will take your formal statement then, once I've done what I need to do back at the station."

* * *

*author's note- believe it or not, this is true. The Home Office Large Major Enquiry Service (affectionately known as HOLMES2 is in use today by the Metropolitan Police force. It's a huge databse of crimes and suspects and used everyday to solve cases.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note- your patience is rewarded- a double length episode that does much to explain the last three chapters! And reviews are REALLY appreciated, as your reaction to this chapter will influence much of what happens next!**

* * *

**Chapter Five: Seven Years Later (2002- Part Three)**

* * *

Lestrade sighed as he came back out of the University College Hospital on Euston Street. It was almost 2am and he was shattered. A long day had turned into a longer night and he was feeling that horrible combination of tired beyond belief yet wired from too much caffeine. The Emergency Department had discharged the patient he had come to see. _Damn, damn, damn._ Tonight was going from bad to worse in a hurry.

He'd just spent a frustrating three and a half hours with the four suspects from Warner Yard's penthouse. All four had lawyered- and not just your run of the mill solicitors- these were the heavy brigade of the legal world, and they had made his head hurt. They were all claiming the same thing- that the young man was a cocaine dealer, who arrived high and carrying drugs he tried to sell them. It was a misunderstanding; no one had asked such a person to come to the flat, but when they tried to get him to leave, he threatened them with blackmail, saying he'd go to the police. When Balázs objected strenuously, the young man got physical with the wrong guy. When he realised that the Hungarian was much stronger than he was, he climbed over the balcony and fell while trying to escape. They claimed that they said nothing, becuase they'd done nothing wrong.

The SOC forensics team would have a go at the penthouse flat tomorrow morning. It was sealed off with police tape in the meantime, but Lestrade hoped that they'd be able to come up with something useful, because so far, there was nothing to say that their story wasn't the truth, apart from the beaten body of a young man lying in a hospital bed.

The lawyers for all but the Hungarian managed to finesse their release on bail- and Greg worried that he would have insufficient evidence to interest the Crown Prosecution Service in taking their cases forward. The Hungarian was in more trouble- the forensic evidence linked the bloody knuckles and his shirt with assault; the question was whether it was done through some form of self defence against a drug dealer, or a brutal beating of an innocent person. The other three bankers were confident that it was a misunderstanding that could be cleared up; they had not been in the room where the fight had taken place between the young man and the Hungarian, so could not comment on who had started it in the first place, or how it had ended. Those three had volunteered a drug test, which came up clear; only two of them were showing an alcohol level that would stop them from driving legally, but that was no crime when sitting in a penthouse. Instead, they argued that it was the police's job to prosecute the young man, and that they would provide evidence in a statement, should Lestrade require it.

Lestrade was tired, and annoyed. He'd had no choice but to release the three men and his case against the last banker was looking more tenuous by the minute, now that his chief witness on whom the case would now hang had just disappeared.

The junior doctor explained, "He discharged himself, Detective Inspector, about an hour after you left. We can only lead a horse to water; can't force them to drink, you know. If you thought he was a suspect, then you should have left a constable to keep an eye on him, or at least instructions to us not to release him."

She was right, and it annoyed the DI. "I don't suppose you took a drugs test?"

She frowned. "Why would we? He didn't appear to be under the influence, and we were more worried about X-rays to check for broken bones. There weren't any, by the way. Just a lot of contusions and a slight concussion."

Lestrade cursed. Without proof that the young man wasn't high, it would be his word against the bankers. He tried another tack with the doctor. "Did anyone collect him? Surely you wouldn't release a patient with concussion to be on his own?"

"He said he had someone at his flat able to keep an eye on him, so we had no choice."

There was an address- 46d, Montague Street, which was within walking distance. Fifteen minutes if you were healthy- God knows how long it would take if you were suffering from such a collection of bruises and a concussion. _Please let this be a legitimate address. God,_ _I hope he's there, or I am going to be in deep trouble. _

The area around the University's medical centre was obviously gentrified, colonised by the young professionals who liked the 'mid-town' feel to the area, but by the time he'd walked south to Montague Street, the smart refurbished terraced houses had given way to the hordes of down-at-the-heel bed and breakfast hotels that clustered around the British Museum. 46 Montague Street was shabbier than most, showing definite need of a coat of paint and a bit of TLC. Given the number of buzzers, obviously bedsits, rather than proper flats. He pressed the one for flat d. _No name on the doorbell._ It was the sort of thing a policeman noticed.

At least someone was awake at thisungodly hour, as a few moments after he punched the buzzer, the electronic lock released. He pushed the front door open onto a dusty black and white tiled hallway. Two flights up the threadbare carpeted stairs, the DI found 46d, and knocked on the door. He had just lifted his hand to knock a second time when the door opened, and Greg saw how much the bruising had come out on Sherlock's face in the intervening hours.

"You look terrible."

The tall brunet tried to raise an eyebrow at that comment, but it obviously hurt, so he just winced. He silently gestured the DI into the room. Glancing around, Lestrade took it in almost instantly. A bare room- one sofa that probably had a pull-out bed, a rickety table and two chairs in the bay front window, a kitchen area with sink and one cabinet above and one below, a toaster, kettle, and a pile of dirty dishes in the sink. There was a gas fire with a cheap fake pine mantel over it. Everywhere there was a pervasive scent of cigarette smoke, and Greg saw a lit one sitting smouldering in an ashtray on the table. The one other door in the room presumably went to a bathroom. In short, the basic bedsit refuge of the not quite down and out, but just above the level of homeless. Rent by the week, not the month; no questions asked. Lestrade had seen hundreds like it before, when investigating crimes. Usually the rooms held suspects, not victims, and that made the DI wary. Were the bankers right?

"You told the Emergency Department that you had someone at your flat to keep an eye on your concussion. Were you lying, or is there someone in the loo?"

Sherlock smirked. "I didn't say who it was, did I? He gestured to the mantel. "DI Lestrade meet Skull. Skull meet the police." Greg looked at the skull and realised it was real.

"Technically, that doesn't have an eye to keep on anything, just a socket." Greg looked at the young man and saw the evidence of the night's toll- he was obviously in pain, pale, a bit sweaty, and his clothes looked wrinkled and dirty. He didn't look high, but then it was almost seven hours after the dinner had started, so any drugs should have worn off by now.

Sherlock withstood the scrutiny and returned the look. "Actually, you don't look great yourself, Detective Inspector. You're knackered and frustrated, haven't eaten in hours and your wife is going to be really pissed off at you when you turn up at the crack of dawn, cold, tired and hungry. Not a great catch, marrying a policeman, is it?"

Greg stared at the young man, who continued, "and you are just dying for a smoke, despite trying to deal with her nagging at you to stop. Would you like one? If she's going to shout at you, then you might as well earn it by doing something you really want to do."

"How do you know about my wife?" he asked mildly as Sherlock handed him one out of the box on the table and tossed him the lighter.

"You weren't married seven years ago, but your ring looks well worn, so I estimate you've been married for about four or five years, going by the amount of soap film build up on the gold. Your shirt was ironed before you put it on this morning- tell-tale creases, even if you look now like you slept in it. So, she's putting up with you, even though the hours are not really social and she is getting impatient for children to keep her mind off how many nights you are on duty."

_How the hell does he know that? _ It was the same sort of string of observations that he remembered being surprised about at the bar when he first saw Sherlock seven years ago. Now, however, instead of assessing a dead body, that forensic commentary was personal and directed at the Detective. Greg bristled. "That's enough about me, Mr Holmes. I am here to find out about you and your connection to the events of this evening. I'll take a statement, and then you and I are going to discuss the Islington murder."

"Forget the statement about Clerkenwell for the moment- that's just small beer, what you really need to know is the big picture. "

The DI turned to the briefcase he'd brought with him and started to reach in for his laptop.

"Oh, no need for that, since we last spoke, I've managed to liberate a _much_ more interesting laptop from one of the suspects." Sherlock pointed to the open computer on the table in the window.

Greg looked perplexed. How had the injured man managed to obtain it?

"Oh, do keep up, Lestrade, really! Even you will recall that I was taken into hospital wrapped in nothing but a duvet, so I went back to Clerkenwell to recover my clothes. While I was there, I helped myself to the American's latest laptop. Fascinating, really useful."

"You crossed a police line and stole evidence? Mr Holmes, that is a criminal offence!"

"Don't be absurd. I have no other clothes here- and I can't say that the charity items the hospital provided were exactly pleasant, so I recovered what I was wearing before the beating. More important, you need to know what's on this laptop if you are going to hold them for any length of time, and build a proper case." He was watching Greg's face at this point, and then looked disappointed. "Oh, I see that you've already had that conversation and they've been released. That's rather annoying, isn't it?"

The older man just closed his eyes, and rubbed the back of his neck. "You have no idea, Mr Holmes."

The younger man was typing away on the keyboard. "Do me a favour, Lestrade; my name is Sherlock. When you call me 'Mr Holmes' it makes me wonder why you're talking to my brother."

That made the detective smile; he remembered Mycroft Holmes. "OK, Sherlock it is. Now do me a favour and tell me why I shouldn't arrest you now on the basis of what those bankers told me."

"Let me guess- they've accused me of doing something illegal- probably drug dealing-and when they tried to be good citizens, I attacked them. So, it's self-defence all round, is it? Or is the Hungarian admitting to a bit more physical engagement? After all, even _you_ could see that he had physical evidence of an altercation on him."

"That may be so, Sherlock, but it's his word against yours about who started the fight."

"And I suppose he's saying that I ran away and threw myself over the balcony?"

"Something like that."

Sherlock sighed. "Idiots," he muttered. Lestrade wondered whether he meant the bankers, or the police. The brunet's next question made him realise that it was probably the police who he had in mind. "And did you ask them why I was naked, or had that slipped your mind?"

"The Hungarian said your 'companionship' – and yes, that was the word he used – had been arranged for the evening, and that there was nothing illegal about it between consenting adults. He didn't know you were high, selling drugs and planning on threatening them with blackmail. "

"And what do you think, Detective Inspector? Have you decided I am a suspect, rather than a victim?"

"You tell me, Sherlock."

The young man lit another cigarette, took a deep drag, and then started speaking quietly. "Their solicitors are very good at this, and you won't be able to make the forensic evidence work to convict the Italian, French and American - even though they were happy to watch their friend beat the crap me up. I didn't come with drugs; they were there before I arrived. They had enjoyed a little- probably not enough to show on a tox screen by the time your lot got around to it; only the Hungarian kept it going past the brief recreational appetiser before dinner. That said, the other three were more than happy to take their turns in the bedroom after dinner. Only the Hungarian liked it rough, and started going rather over the top. He had a stash in the bathroom, and powdered his nose, as the saying goes. That's when I nicked his phone and made the call to you. Then it went from bad to worse, and I decided that I had what I needed in terms of evidence, so I tried to escape. Unfortunately, as you will have guessed, he's a LOT bigger than me, and I wasn't able to get dressed again, before Szamuely 'helped' me out the patio doors onto the deck and tossed me over the side. Lucky for me, the fall was only down to the roof of the floor below. For all he knew it was a six floor drop to the street."

His strange grey-green eyes locked with Greg's brown eyes. "Yes, if this ever came to court, it would be his word against mine. He's a banker, and I am …living a rather less affluent life style, about which a jury would probably draw the wrong conclusions. But, fortunately, I did not go there tonight expecting to get a conviction against the four of them. I actually got what I wanted- information and a password that I needed."

Greg was listening from the sofa. He was frowning. "You would put yourself at risk because you thought these people were in some way connected to the Islington murder?" He looked confused.

Sherlock put his hand to his forward in disbelief. "Are you _really_ that thick, or is it just exhaustion that is clouding your thinking? I've already said these four had nothing to do with the murder. No, Detective Inspector, you have to stop being so literal."

"Then explain it in words of one syllable, or I'm going to be annoyed enough to start believing those bankers that you are the criminal, not the victim." Greg let the sarcasm show, as well as the threat.

The young man stood up and stretched. "Right- step one, stop thinking small, Lestrade. What happened tonight is the tip of the iceberg. Yes- this evening's events involved four bankers, or rather three bankers and a hedge fund manager. Doesn't matter what bit of the financial world they come from, they all share one thing in common, and it is that they are members of something called the Pountney Club. Oh, and the murderers involved in Miles Stedman's death were also members."

"Just imagine this, Lestrade. You are the chief executive of an international bank or global financial firm. In your own home market, you are treated like a king. Everyone knows you. From concierge to maître de, from chief inspector to drug dealer or pimp. You know where to go, what to do, where to source your drugs, sex and rock and roll when you've just clinched the deal of a lifetime. But, take that same person overseas, put him in a place like London, where so much international deal making takes place, and that same kingpin is a nobody. Doesn't know how to source his favourite fun safely, or where to party without fear of being busted.

"So, the Pountney Club was formed to meet those needs. Members include central bank chairmen from all the major financial zones, bank CEOs, MDs from insurance companies, hedge funds, corporate lawyers, you name it. All you need is two personal recommendations from existing members and one hell of a hefty bank balance. Once you're in, then whenever you arrive in London, all your needs are looked after. Cars, private flats, women, men, sex, drugs, whatever. Trouble is, when bankers party, people can get hurt, crimes can be committed. Oh, good news- the club looks after that, too."

"Miles Stedman was a student at my university who, like me, ended up not graduating. He was an addict with expensive tastes, and made contact with one of the people running the Pountney Club. He supplied the drugs and was the dinner guest at a rather raucous party run for a group of Russian bankers, only he never made it out alive. When the bankers realised he was dead, they bolted and called the club. The crime scene was cleaned up and the body dumped. Your first problem is that you can't find out who this Miles Stedman is- all you've got is the ID that you are now beginning to think is fake. And you have made no progress on the case because you can't find the scene of the original crime."

Lestrade just listened in growing fascination. "How the hell did you figure this out? What kind of evidence have you got?"

"It helps that I know Miles Stedman isn't his real name; he changed it when he left university, because his family disowned him. So, I knew who to look for, under his real name, Eduardo Riguez, when it came to tracing his movements after he left Cambridge. Went to his flat, had a nose around, found a couple of references in a diary, then a business card from the club."

Lestrade just looked at the young man's bruised face. "So, you just decided to do the same? Put yourself forward as what? A posh rent boy?" Greg remembered the original crime scene when he first met Sherlock.

"I can play the part convincingly, so the Pountney Club took me onto their books. The Clerkenwell flat was my first gig, actually. But it was enough to get me into the presence of four members- and access to that laptop. Using ther American's password, I've located the club's system and hacked into it. That's what I've been doing while you've been getting the run-around from their solicitors."

"And how did you know his password?" His eyebrows rose incredulously.

Sherlock just snorted. "Passwords are like walnuts- easy to crack open if you know how and what to look for, detective. If you want proof, just let me at the laptop in your briefcase. If it's yours, I bet you a £100 I can get into it within five minutes. The Pountney Club's internal database was trickier- that took me almost 40 minutes."

Lestrade looked uncomfortable. Sherlock smirked. "Yes, I know, detective, not terribly legal. Doesn't matter. Armed with a warrant you can now get the info legally under the Data Protection Act, and arrest the club organisers for being accessories to three murders, multiple instances of rape and assault and literally hundreds of drugs and under-aged sex offences- all neatly covered up."

"Will any of it stand up in court? I've just spent three hours with a batch of lawyers that could get a serial killer off, so how can you be sure this will work?"

"I'm not an idiot, detective. The club kept meticulous files on its clients' misdemeanour, all useful protection and maybe even blackmail material. While you were faffing about with lawyers, I have spent the time gutting that database for all the evidence you'll need." He held up a USB stick.

"I'm handing this to you on a plate, Lestrade. It should make your career."

"Why would you want to do that?"

The young man looked up at Greg. "Why not?"

"I mean it, Sherlock. What's in this for you? Why would you nearly get yourself killed to uncover this crime network? How was Miles Stedman important to you?"

A slow smiled dawned on Sherlock's face. He pushed himself back from the table and crossed his arms. "You think that I'm involved with Stedman's cocaine dealing. That's why you're hesitating."

He smirked, and then leant forward to type something into the laptop, before turning it sideways so Lestrade could see the screen that was opening. "My alibi for the night that Stedman died- I was at a chemistry lecture at Imperial College". He gestured toward the screen. "There's the organiser's name; give him a call, if you want verification." The young man continued, "You can rest your conscience, Detective Inspector. I scarcely knew Eduardo at University, and had no contact with him after he changed his name to Miles. No, I did this because I got curious about the circumstances around his death. I solved the crime, because I could. It's what I enjoy doing. I showed you my aptitude at that crime scene where we first met. You could say it's a passion of mine."

The DI gave that some thought. His mind kept returning to that moment when he looked over the balcony at the bundle on the roof below, wrapped in the bloodied duvet. "Most people your age have normal hobbies- you know, following a football team, dancing at a club, chasing girls; why do you think that infiltrating a crime network is a suitable pastime?"

"I intend doing this as a career, a sort of consulting detective. I solved your first case after your promotion to Sergeant, and now I am about to solve another for you – or, rather, lots more, once your team is able to match up the data with your cold cases files. I would have thought that would be enough to convince you that I am worth consulting."

"The Met does not consult external people."

"Yes, you do- you regularly hire profilers."

"That's different. They're criminal psychologists."

"I'm a specialist, too. And, evidently, I am able to do things that your people are unable to do."

The older man sat down on the sofa, and rubbed his eyes. "I don't suppose you have any coffee?"

Sherlock's grey eyes just bore into him for a moment. Then without a word, he got up and went to the sink, filled the kettle and switched it on. He washed one of the dirty mugs and pulled out of the cupboard a jar of instant coffee. A few moments later, he handed the detective a mug. "I don't take milk in my coffee, so there's none in the flat."

"That's OK; I drink it black, too." Sherlock lit another cigarette and handed it over to the detective, who took it gratefully and pulled in a long drag of smoke.

Lestrade said quietly, "I don't know a thing about you. I have no idea what you've been up to for the past seven years, and nothing at all about what put you in that bar at sixteen, high as a kite, and living homeless. Last time I saw you, you were being escorted out of the station by your scary brother and probably headed for a lengthy stay in an institution. Does he know where you are?"

"Leave him out of it. I make my own way now. You want a potted history? OK- after you ratted me out to my brother, I spent six months in rehab, and then went to Cambridge to read Chemistry. Bored me witless, so I didn't finish the degree, left after my second year. I worked in a number of forensic labs for a while, including Hitchingbrooke Park at Huntington. To be honest, the work was as excruciatingly boring as the studying had been. Chemistry helps, but too many crime scene officers don't understand crime. I do. It's what I do best. As this evening's work shows, detective."

"And the drugs? Are you clean now?"

Sherlock looked at him carefully. "At the moment. Whether I stay that way depends on how bored I get. Give me an opportunity to work with you and I won't be bored."

Greg wondered whether he was so tired that the idea was beginning to sound appealing. He needed this case to turn out well- and any remote chance that there could be a breakthrough in the Islington murder on offer sounded very attractive indeed. His clear up rate had been adequate, but not brilliant. At his last appraisal, the Detective Chief Inspector had made it plain. "You need a little magic, Lestrade. Being a safe pair of hands is all well and good when you start out, but it's time to show a little initiative." That had stung Greg; he worked hard, and resented being seen as pedestrian.

"Can you _really_ deliver the proof to close down this network?" The DI sounded tired, but a little frustrated, too. Then he straightened up. "Actually, that laptop is evidence and I can just take it away from you now and get my people to unlock the data, get a warrant for this Pountney Club and obtain the stuff myself."

Sherlock glowered. "You don't get this, do you? Your 'people' aren't smart enough to put it together, connect up the dots, draw the right conclusions. They ask all the wrong questions and look in the wrong places for answers. If you agree that I can work with you on this case, then I'm willing to share with you my own work where I've drawn the links between the club and over thirty unreported crimes over the past four years. Oh, and a list of the three hundred and twenty three members of the club. In London alone, there is enough evidence to make over thirty arrests- and you can win brownie points with your colleagues in New York, Tokyo, Frankfurt and Singapore- where their nationals have been involved in crimes committed here in London."

Lestrade was startled by the scale of what the young man was revealing. "That sounds like Christmas come early. Really, it sounds too good to be true. While I might be interested in getting your opinion on this case, you know we couldn't pay you. And once the case was over, there can't be any guarantees of any other work. It's not a living, Sherlock."

Sherlock was tired, too- and sore. He waved his hand dismissively- "I don't care about payment; that doesn't matter. I care about the work." He looked down at the floor, sighed and ran his hands through his unruly hair a couple of times, in frustration. "What can I say or do to prove to you that this will be successful, Lestrade?"

The DI drank the dregs of his mug of coffee. "Well, if you can figure out how to get these four bastards from Clerkenwell to face the music, then that's a start."

Sherlock sat up, suddenly energised. "Oh, is that all? That's easy. Here's how you do it…."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six: Seven Years Later (2002- Part Four)**

* * *

Sherlock was right. Lestrade had gone home, had a shower, changed his clothes, ate breakfast and kissed his wife, who complained that he still smelled of cigarette smoke. Then he returned to the station and called in the four financiers- with their lawyers in tow. The American, Italian and French suspects were all put into separate interview rooms. The Italian was questioned first. Rather than go over the same ground as last night, Lestrade took a different tack.

"Mister Vanucci, I have sworn testimony here from a person with whom you spent time last night, about your activities- which include ingesting illegal substances, and being an accessory to grievous bodily harm. I do not intend sending this to the Crown Prosecution Service. Instead, I will be taking the file to the Financial Services Authority, as it may suggest that you are not a fit person under the terms of the Financial Services and Markets Act for a position of such responsibility in your bank. I am sure that they will be taking up the issue with your bank's other board members, and possibly your home regulator. If, however, you were prepared to give us evidence about the Pountney Club, I am prepared to reconsider sending the file to the FSA."

The Italian chairman looked stunned. He turned to his lawyer briefly, and then asked Lestrade to agree to a short recess so he could confer with his advisor. Ten minutes later, he agreed to spill the beans. The other two did the same when Lestrade explained that the Italian had taken the easy way out.

The Hungarian was dealt with more harshly. He was told the file would be passed to the British banking authorities, and that he would most likely be asked to leave London, if not prosecuted. If he was sensible, he would take the next flight out and not ever return.

In exchange, rather than risk their careers, all four agreed to give statements regarding the Pountney Club. Their testimony was sufficient to get Lestrade the warrant he needed to raid the Club's office, and to confiscate PCs and data about their activities both legal and illegal on behalf of their members.

Thereafter, events moved swiftly. A joint task force was set up bringing Lestrade's homicide team together with members of the Met's SECC Intelligence Unit. On the first day the task force met, Lestrade was accompanied by a young man, a tall brunet with unruly hair and an uncanny sense of being able to ask the right question, or make a statement that was so off-the-wall that it made the entire team re-think their assumptions. And he came armed with a set of thirty unreported cases. After investigation by the team, twelve of the twenty victims agreed to press charges.

Thanks to his help, getting the papers ready only took three weeks. As they prepared to pass the files for almost seventy cases, including seventeen homicides, to the Crown Prosecution Service, Lestrade took Sherlock aside into his office to thank him for working with them. "Couldn't have done this without you. I'm going to be pretty busy for the next couple of months, though, tying up the loose ends and making sure the court cases are supported. So, I'm not going to be doing anything new for a while."

"Boring," was the only reply.

Lestrade then invited Sherlock to the case "wash up" with the task force, about to adjourn to the pub for the evening, but the young man declined, saying he had "other things to do." Lestrade watched him clear up his papers, put on his scarf and long coat, and then disappear without a backward glance.

After a few congratulatory rounds at the pub, Greg basked in the afterglow of a job well done. It had taken the Yard by surprise, the extent of the network, and the quality of the evidence they had presented. He realised that his career would never be the same when the DCI arrived with the Assistant Commissioner, who insisted on buying a round for the team.

"Well done, Lestrade; this is a real breakthrough, and I'm really proud of you."

Greg looked a little uncomfortable. "I've had a lot of help on this one, Sir. It's been a case of real team work, and it would never have even got started if it wasn't for our first break." He was about to explain how Sherlock had been the key, when the DCI interrupted. "Of course, Lestrade, it's always teamwork that wins the day, and it's modest of you to want to share the glory."

The Assistant Commissioner jumped in, too. "I'm sorry that I've got to run now- a reception with the Mayor of London- so duty calls, but I just wanted you to know that your work has done the Force proud." He shook hands with Lestrade and then was off.

A little worse for the drink, Lestrade decided to walk a while before getting the tube home, and his path took him up Montague Street. As he came up the road, about a fifty yards ahead he saw Sherlock and another youth talking on the pavement outside Number 46. Something was passed between the two men, and Sherlock disappeared through the front door. A few moments later, the young man passed Lestrade, who glanced at his face. His pupils were hugely dilated. _High as a kite, and probably dealing cocaine, too._ When he rang the doorbell for Flat d, there was no reply. Lestrade sighed and carried on up the road.

In the weeks after, arrests followed, and the Crown Prosecution Service got to work. Lestrade texted Sherlock a few times, tried phoning only to get put through to voice mail. A week later, ringing the number simply got a recording, "The number you are calling is no longer in service." A day later when he tried stopping by the flat again, a young woman was leaving the building as he arrived. He asked if she had seen the bloke in Flat d.

"Which one? The tall guy with dark hair? Nah, he left a couple of weeks ago. There's an old guy in there now- snores so loud the couple in the room next door complained to the landlord last week." Neither she nor the landlord had a forwarding address or contact details.

Over the next seven months lawyers were briefed, court dates set, preliminary hearings held. In time, prosecutions were made, convictions secured. And across the world, a number of important bankers and senior financiers decided to take early retirement. And Greg found himself wondering whether Sherlock cared. He decided that the enigmatic young man would probably find it all rather boring. And he felt sad at that.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven: Two Years Before (2003- Part One)**

* * *

"Damn, damn, damn!" Lestrade grabbed the airwave radio from his pocket. "Sally, I need you here NOW! Robson's down!"

The DI laid the radio on the ground and bent over the form of Constable Robson. The PC was grasping his side in pain, but still conscious. "Sorry, Guv- I just didn't see him until it was too late. Didn't realise he had a knife. And now he's got away, after all this. Shit….I've made such a bodge of this. I'm sorry."

"Be quiet, Robson, Just lie still. It's nobody's fault. Nobody knew what he looked like, so how were you to know? Just lie still, will you? "He picked up the radio again, out through a call for ambulance services. "Did you get a good look at him?"

"Yeah, just get him in a line out, Guv, and I'll be able to identify him for sure."

"Well, that's good news; at least we can ID him now." The DI's team had been tracking this murder suspect for days. He'd been involved with a drug smuggling scam, and killed his partner in a squabble over the cash. But, he was good at hiding- he'd been on the run for a week already. So far, the team had no name and no face to put with it, only a telephoned tip from an unknown informant that "your guy" is in the old office block in the abandoned industrial estate. Lestrade had sealed the whole area. High fences with razor wire limited the escape routes. They'd made sure there were no breaches in the perimeter, and the DI put two cars at the only way out, through the front gate.

He kept his handkerchief pressed to the knife wound on the PC's side.

Sally came bursting through the back door, took the scene in and knelt down alongside the DI. "Is he OK?"

"He's going to be, just give us your scarf and hold it onto the knife wound; keep pressure on it 'til the medics get here. Then go with him to the hospital. Once you're there, call his wife, will you?" She nodded.

Greg stood up, bringing the radio to his mouth. "Clarke and Williams- either of you see any sign of the suspect coming your way?"

The crackled replies from the constables at the front gate were negative, which meant one thing- that the suspect was still inside the wire fence and might yet be caught. He ordered the two men to keep vigilant as the team of twelve would now go through the rest of the buildings on the abandoned industrial park.

The first three buildings were pretty much wrecked- glass windows broken, cold, wet and very empty. Lestrade heard the ambulance arrive during their search of the second building; it left when they were half way through the third. When that too came up empty, he reassembled the team. With five more buildings to go, he decided that they needed to split up, lest their investigation take the rest of the night.

So it was that he and PC Jones headed into the single story building between the two larger blocks. No sooner had they crossed the threshold when Lestrade realised that something was different about this one- it was warmer. The windows weren't broken. He stopped and called quietly on the radio for back-up. "Go around the back, Jones; I think we might get lucky here. And call in the rest of the team."

He moved quietly through the first set of double doors. His torch revealed a lot of footprints in the dust, so he hurriedly switched it off, lest the light give his presence away. He let his eyes adjust to the gloom before moving on. He then heard a quiet murmur of voices, and stopped again. In the dark, he realised that there was a flickering light coming from the larger room at the end of the corridor. He decided to wait for back-up. When two of his PCs came through the same doors as he had, he gestured to them to be silent, and to join him. The three men then moved swiftly down the corridor. Lestrade went in first, shouting, "POLICE! Get your hands up where we can see them."

The scene that greeted him was a surprise. There must have been twenty people in the large room; some standing, some sitting, others lying on mattresses. There was a distinctive odor in the room- a strange mix of unwashed bodies, the unmistakable aroma of marijuana, the sharp tang of crack cocaine being smoked. It was a drug den, with dealing and use going on in the dim light of a number of small stoves and fires.

For a split second, no one moved. Then it was chaos, with people running, some pushing up windows to get out, others trying to bolt out the back door. They didn't get far, as the police outside caught them and pulled them away to be cuffed. Lestrade and his two PCs had their hands full with grabbing and cuffing everyone they could lay a hand on in the dim light.

Lestrade's instructions were simple- round up the whole lot, arrest them, take them down to the station. He was certain that the murder suspect would be amongst them. Photos would be taken and then shown to Robson, when he was sufficiently recovered to make the ID. If he was lucky, this night's work would not only capture a murderer, but also help put a bunch of dealers and their junkie customers off the streets for a while. Not his division, but it always helped when other areas of the Force benefitted.

oOo

They'd arrested 19 people, most of whom were in various states of drug intoxication. Fingerprints and mug shots were taken, routine medical exams done, and initial statements given to constables.

After an hour of the organised chaos of processing so many suspects, DI Lestrade was tired and on edge- too much caffeine and not enough sleep were playing havoc with his nerves. One of the suspects was his murderer, but with Robson unconscious following surgery at the hospital, he had no way to make a quick ID. He sighed and drank his third coffee; he was going to have to do this the hard way. He needed to try to narrow down the suspects before the lawyers got to work and bail procedures got underway. It would be a race against the clock.

He went down to the main holding cells to take a look at the suspects. The first six were a rough bunch- less intoxicated, if at all, according to the doctor who had given them an initial examination. Older men, instinct told him these were more likely to be the dealers. Of course, any one of them could have been the murderer, but without Robson there to identify who stabbed him, it was anyone's guess which one.

"What about the others?" he asked Sally. She'd returned from the hospital as soon as Robson's wife had arrived.

"The usual suspects, Guv. Junkies, homeless, low life- hard to tell which is which. Some crackheads, some high on bennies; a few on heroin. It must have been like a bloody drug supermarket in there."

"Line them up and I'll take a look. If we can eliminate some of them for the murder, then that will narrow our list of suspects down, while we've waiting for Robson."

The first seven were as Sally described-junkies looking worse for wear. Florescent lighting was always so harsh- it showed every bit of grey pallor, dark circles under their eyes, underfed, unwashed and grubby. _God, if they only knew how pathetic they all look!_ Drugs drove Greg mad- such a waste of young lives, and such a reservoir of criminal activity. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Looking at these six, he doubted that the murderer could be among them- they all looked shit scared. A man who had led the police on a merry chase after murdering his partner in cold blood wasn't likely to be too bothered about a simple drugs bust.

"Ok, Sally, push this sad lot back into the cells and bring in the next."

Lestrade took another couple of swigs from the coffee, and then looked at the six new suspects as they shuffled in. And found his attention immediately drawn to the third one in, a tall, dark haired young man who, unlike the others, had a look of utter boredom on his face.

"Bloody hell, that's Sherlock Holmes".

"Pardon, sir?" Sally looked at him quizzically.

"You don't know him, Donovan- before your time with me. He's the third one out of that line-up. Put him on his own in an interrogation room. I'll need to get his statement before that bloody brother of his shows up."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight : Two Years Before (2003- Part Two)**

* * *

Before he went into the interrogation room, Lestrade took a look at the sheet. Sherlock had given a false name; oddly enough, it was Lars Sigurson, the same one that he had used on his fake UCL ID when he was sixteen. The doctor's medical examination had indicated cocaine usage might be an issue from the track marks, but he didn't seem to be high at the moment. In any case, the police request for a blood sample had been declined, as was his right. He had not had any drugs on his person when arrested. He'd declined legal representation and made no phone call since arriving at the station.

Lestrade took in two cups of black coffee. When he sat down, he pushed the other one toward Sherlock. "I assume you don't take milk now, any more than you did fifteen months ago. What have you been up to in the interval?" The question was delivered casually.

"What, apart from being bored and indulging my taste for cocaine?" This was delivered in a slightly offhand manner by the young man who was sitting relaxed, with one leg bent over the other knee. He took the coffee and had a deep pull at it. "I don't suppose you have a cigarette on you?"

"Gave it up last year; you were right that time at Montague Street- the wife's been on about me stopping for years. Of course, even if I did have one to offer, you can't smoke indoors these days, don't you know?"

"So a police station qualifies as a public place, does it?"

"Yeah, a bit like a bus station." Lestrade was now eyeing the younger man carefully. _Thin, too thin; I would not have thought he had any excess weight to lose since I last saw him._

"So, did you catch the murder suspect?"

Greg nearly choked on his coffee. Once he'd recovered his breath from coughing, he wheezed out, "I suppose it was you then who called in the anonymous tip?"

Sherlock just smirked.

Lestrade stifled an impulse to thank him. Instead, he asked cautiously, "You know what he looks like then?"

Here Sherlock's left eyebrow lifted. "Does that mean you don't?" He made no effort to hide his incredulity.

"Nope. Well, I say that, but when Robson regains consciousness after being stitched up for the knife wound that the suspect gave him on his way past, then he'll be able to ID him."

"Robson was the PC on the back door, then? Don't bet on the suspect still being around to be identified when your man wakes up. His lawyer will have him sprung soon."

"Christ, Sherlock! Did you see him stab my PC?"

"Yes, of course." He looked a little puzzled at the DI. "But, it wasn't with intent to kill; he just wanted to slow him up. If he wanted to kill your man, he could have very easily, but he didn't."

"What the hell were you doing there?"

"I was the lookout; isn't that obvious?"

Greg just looked askance at the tall brunet. "No, it isn't obvious, not in the slightest."

Sherlock looked bemused. "Then why else do you think that no one at the place realised that an ambulance had come and gone, or that your men were crawling all over the place? I knew he was coming tonight, so called you and left the tip. I saw him bolt into the first building with you lot hot on his tail. While all that was going on, who do you think made sure that the rest of the guys at the back of my building didn't know anything about what was going on? The suspect bolted out the doorway from your building and went straight past me- he knew the set up well enough to use the word he needed to gain entrance, so I didn't stop him. Figured you would show up sooner or later and get him. After all, even _you_ would have been smart enough to seal off any exit apart from the front gates."

"Well, thanks for that little vote of confidence. I am obliged for your help."

"So you should be, Detective Inspector."

"You made that call that even though you knew you'd be caught up in the arrests?"

"Well," here the lanky youth gave a cynical smile, "it seemed my civic duty, given what a mess you had made of the enquiry for the previous week. You people never do your homework on cases like these; just jump to the first predictable conclusion and don't see anything else. You think you understand this guy's motive, so call it murder when it's clear you haven't got a clue. It wasn't even murder- more a case of aggravated assault turned to accidental manslaughter."

The tall brunet pushed back in his chair and crossed his arms in front of this chest. "I got tired of waiting for you to put the pieces together so did something myself. Tonight I talked my way in through some contacts of mine and made myself useful by volunteering for lookout duty. When I knew the suspect was likely to show, I made the call to you. There was little risk to me from the police; you've got nothing to hold me on. I've declined a drugs test, you can't get me on possession. Of course, on my way out, I could do you the favour of identifying the guy…if you'd like me to, that is."

Lestrade just looked at those grey green eyes, and then he realised that Sherlock was amused. He looked down at the coffee in front of him, took a sip quietly, and started smiling. "Yeah, why don't you do that? You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

The young man's smile crept out and broadened, "Yes, actually, I am; this is the most fun I've had since…I don't know, maybe fifteen months ago when the Pountney Club case kept us both occupied. That's why I set this little exercise up, so you could catch him. I meant what I said back then, Detective Inspector Lestrade; you need me. We need to find a way to make this work."

Greg laughed out loud. "Yes, I do need you for this case, but, unfortunately, the Met doesn't work with junkies, not unless they are informants- and that's another division. You'd have to work with the drugs squad, not homicide."

Sherlock sniffed. "Boring."

"If it's so boring, why do you do drugs then?"

The smile faded a bit. "Nothing better to do, I guess."

Lestrade just looked at him. "That's one of the stupidest excuses I've ever heard."

Sherlock scowled at him. "You have no idea, detective inspector, and it is irrelevant to this discussion. You know I can be counted on for giving you information useful to your job, so let's just cut the sanctimonious stuff and get back to the case at hand." He took a deep breath and gave Lestrade a smile.

"What does your brother make of it?"

The smile disappeared instantly. "Just leave him out of it."

"I wish I could. But, somehow I get the feeling that his security clearance is a lot higher than mine. And his interest in your future is probably just as strong as it was when he first dragged you out of the station eight and a half years ago. I presume he knew that you were working with us on the Poutney Club cases?"

"We're not on speaking terms, not now and not then. And, if you don't mind, I'd like to get out of here before the nosey git gets informed about my whereabouts now, and decides to make himself a nuisance to us both. I'll ID your suspect and tell you how to get him to confess in exchange for letting me go within the next twenty minutes."

Now it was Greg's turn to smile. "Is it really that simple?"

"Yes, so let's get a move on, Detective Inspector."

And Sherlock delivered as he promised. He took one look at the holding cell with the older men, and just laughed. "Really, are you all so utterly predictable? I thought that profiling according to stereotypes was something out of the ark, but seems you lot are still doing it."

"He wasn't in my line-out, so I assume you've got the other seven in a holding cell somewhere. Pick out the ginger-haired geeky one and pop him in an interrogation room. His name is Rafe Stevens. Your medical examination should have picked up a bandaged forearm where his partner managed to fight back with the guy's own knife. You should fire your forensics team by the way- simple enough to have noticed that fact that there were _two_ sources of blood at the so called murder scene, and that the man killed had wounded his killer. Rafe's not the brightest candle in the box, by the way, still using the same knife on your PC, so you can make the forensic connection as yet another piece to secure a conviction. He ditched the knife- probably on his way out the window when you busted into the room. Check it out in daylight- look for it hidden in one of the open sash windows along the left wall. That's where he was likely to have been."

This puzzled Lestrade. "Actually, that raises an interesting point; if you were the look-out, then presumably you weren't in the room. So, where were you? And how can you know where he stashed the weapon?"

"I was at the door, let him in through it, spotted you coming over five minutes later, and hid while you and the other two PCs made enough noise to wake the dead. Luckily for you, that back room where they were was far enough away and the primus stoves and the oil barrel fire make enough racket, fortunately, that they didn't hear you coming. And I don't need to be in a room to know where the murderer would go- he smuggles cocaine, so he headed over to the two who were dealing, on the left side of the room by the back wall. Deduction tells me where he'd hide the weapon."

Lestrade tried not to look too impressed. "OK, how are we going to get this guy to confess? At the moment, it's your word against his, and if he toughs us out, he'll get released, because the sheet says he has no previous record, isn't under the influence, nor was he carrying any drugs, so we're going to have to release him according to his brief, who showed up here a half hour ago."

The tall brunet just smiled. "Oh, that's a piece of cake, Detective Inspector. Here's what you should do…"

oOo

And, once again, Sherlock was right. The initial questioning was predictable; the solicitor was giving the suspect the courage to stone-wall. "You've got nowt on me, so get away with this." The Yorkshire accent and bluff manner seemed incongruous given the skinny grubby youth in front of him who was spouting it, but then Lestrade sprang his surprise.

"We know, by the way, about your connection to Charlie, and why you killed him. It's convenient, isn't it, that you were working together on the Belarus smuggling operation. So, I'm sure it helped your reputation as a tough guy to spread the story about it being over the money. Too bad it was actually over Charlie's sister that you were fighting. She'd agreed to keep quiet, but he was suspicious. Meant to scare him off, did you? Things got out of hand when he grabbed your knife and cut your arm? Now it would be really difficult for you if the truth got out on the street that you killed your partner after raping his sister."

Lestrade leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. He beamed. "So, go on, walk out the door of this station, and we'll let his family know. They'll get the truth out of her and then come after you with everything they've got. I wouldn't want to be in your shoes, once they know."

"Shit. How the chuffing heck do you know this stuff?"

"Doesn't matter how. Only thing that matters is that I do. So, what are you going to do about it?"

The ginger youth paled. He stuttered… "it was just a fr…fra…fratch; the maungey sis- we was both kaylied, but it got out a hand." Both Lestrade and the solicitor looked confused.

"Aw, you daft lot- ok- for southern wankers- Charlie and I got into a quarrel, cause his spoilt lil sis cried rape when it wasn't. She's a right looker, we'd both got rat-faced drunk and hit it off, but she got scared of him, so said it was forced on her. He took it the wrong ways, I got the knife out to protect myself and he sliced me up. Then we tussled and he fell on it."

"You stashed the knife in the window sash, didn't you?"

This made the young man's eyes nearly pop. "You couldn't ha seen tha' s'not possible" he whispered.

Lestrade just smirked, and then decided to take pity on the youth. "Well, you were looking at a murder charge, but if you were to confess to manslaughter and a knife assault on my constable, it might do. I could talk to the CPS and see if that's on." He decided to drop the other piece of evidence that Sherlock had handed him. "Of course, I'd be more willing to do that if you'd tell the truth about the whole drug smuggling operation, which I understand was Charlie's idea in the first place. If you could give us a few names, and if those names could lead to some convictions, I'm sure that would go down well in mitigation."

The youth looked at his brief, nodding vigorously. "I'm up for it. Just, please, don't tell her folks about the other thing, anything but that!"

oOo

"Robson's come round in the hospital. Should I take the photos around? "

Sally handed her DI the fourth cup of coffee in as many hours, as the dawn came up, casting a weak light into the office. It had been a crazy night. But she was amazed to see him looking so cheerful, when he came out of the interrogation room.

"No need; let the poor guy rest. We've got our man and the evidence to convict."

Her eyes widened. "Did that tall skinny guy have anything to do with cracking this?"

Lestrade just beamed at her. "Everything. It's all sorted, thanks to him. The list of the dealers' names is on my desk and you can release the rest of them with a warning to stay away from drugs. Pass the dealers' files onto the Drugs Squad when they get in this morning. You and I have got paperwork to do on Rafe Stevens, who will cop to a manslaughter charge in exchange for evidence about the Belarus smuggling connection. It's a real result."

She frowned. "So the guy who you picked out from the line out is one of your informants?"

"Nope. Just someone who's helped out in the past, and I hope will be able to do so again in the future."

She looked sceptical. "A junkie? How can a junkie be helpful if he isn't an informant."

Lestrade frowned at her. "Not everyone who _looks_ the part is one, Donovan. You should be more open-minded. That young man has proved amazingly helpful on three occasions in my career, and I have every intention that he will do so again in the future."


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's note: just in time for Christmas, a seven part story, posted one chapter at a time. **_**Warning- this is NOT Christmas fluff**_

* * *

**Chapter Nine- 2003 Cold Turkey Cases-Part One**

* * *

The case against the Belarus smuggling ring and the associated death of Charlie Fanshaw once again brought Lestrade to the attention of his superiors for all the right reasons. He did not forget how and why the breakthrough had come. This time, he was determined that the enigmatic young man would not disappear from his radar. He agreed to letting Sherlock go from the station only after extracting a mobile phone number and a promise to stay in touch. He wasn't sure when another case would come up where Sherlock's skills would be useful, but he would keep him in mind. Over the next week, he sent a couple of texts, got two back in reply. The first simply said "bored" and the second was as brusque- another "boring". He found himself hoping for something suitably challenging to come up soon, even though that thought made him feel a bit guilty on behalf of any future victim.

Twelve days after the arrest of Rafe Stevens, Lestrade was walking along Victoria Street, heading up the road from New Scotland Yard to do a bit of grocery shopping. His wife was away tonight and the next two – a 'hen weekend' in Spain for one of her old school chums getting married next weekend. He was making his way through the lunchtime throngs when he spotted a tall dark haired figure walking down the opposite side of the street. Sherlock's head was down and his eyes were fixed on the pavement. Lestrade realised that there was a black car following Sherlock, going at exactly the same pace as the young man. It looked very odd. Traffic was starting to build up behind it, with irate drivers pulling out around it in annoyance. Sherlock was studiously ignoring it.

He wondered whether he should call out, but then realised that Victoria Street's width and the traffic noise would probably mean he wouldn't be heard, so he just watched as the strange combination of pedestrian and car made its way towards him. When they were virtually opposite from where Greg was standing, the young man's patience snapped. He stopped and stared directly up at a CCTV camera on a lamppost. Even above the traffic noise, the DI could hear Sherlock's shout. "Piss off! How many times do I have to do this? Just GET OUT OF MY LIFE!"

This drew a number of stares from the pedestrians walking by, who adjusted their paths to put more distance between themselves and the shouting man. Without another word, Sherlock tucked his head down into his coat, and sprinted off, heading back up the street about twenty feet and taking a sharp left into the pedestrian plaza in front of Westminster's Catholic Cathedral.

Greg realised at that moment what was going on. Sherlock was escaping from the scrutiny of his brother. If the CCTV camera rant wasn't enough of a give-away, it was the two men in suits who got out of the black car, running after him. _Shit, what's going on here?_

The car then pulled a sharp U turn and headed up at speed towards Victoria Station. By the time he got across the road and into the plaza, there was no sign of either Sherlock or the men following him. Frustrated, he pulled his phone out and scrolled down until he found Sherlock's number.

**13.15pm Big bro being a pain? If you need help, give me a shout**.

He didn't get a reply, but then he wasn't really expecting one. Disappointed, he carried on up to the supermarket and started shopping for his weekend supplies.

oOo

His arms were full of Sainsbury bags as he fumbled for his keys to the flat. _Memo to self- thank her for doing this so often; it's a real pain coming home on the tube with the shopping._

He put the food away, popped his ready meal into the microwave, and opened a bottle of beer. There was a game on tonight, and for once, he'd be able to eat in front of the telly. His wife did not approve- standards. She insisted that they have a proper meal at the dining room table where they talked to one another. A guilty smile came out when he forked in the next mouthful of curry and rice, as he watched the goalie make a spectacular save from a free kick. He hadn't even dished the food out onto a plate, but was eating straight from the foil container. Save on the washing up was his motto this weekend. He loved his wife dearly, but sometimes a bloke just wants to chill out in front of the football.

The game went well; sometimes football could be frustratingly unexciting, but this one was full of twists and turns of fortune, leading to a good result: Arsenal 2-West Ham 1. He felt delightfully full and sleepy, so he switched off the TV after the post-game review and headed for the bedroom. An early night was called for.

Four hours later, he was woken up by a sound that he couldn't identify; his brain was still half asleep, but it must have been unusual for it to have woken him up. He wondered for a moment whether his wife had made an unexpected return home, and that worried him enough to decide to get up.

He wandered down the hall into the living room, pulling on his dressing gown, and then stopped dead. There was someone standing in the living room- definitely not his wife. The figure in the dark was tall, thin and then his brain caught up with his eyes. "Sherlock? What are you doing in my living room?" Lestrade's sleep fuddled mind then realised the next fact. "Bloody hell, you broke into my flat!" His indignation was loud and clear.

"You volunteered to help earlier this afternoon, but I didn't think it was civilised to "give you a shout" at this hour, despite your suggestion to do so in the text." This was delivered in a calm, quiet baritone.

Greg sighed. "So, you just thought I wouldn't mind you picking the lock on my front door and marching right in." He rubbed his eyes, which were struggling to see anything in the dark. He reached over to the table lamp and switched it on.

Sherlock turned away from the light, and Lestrade saw that the young man was fighting to stay standing. "What's wrong?" Greg watched as Sherlock lifted his hand to his forehead and then staggered to the armchair where he sat himself down hurriedly.

"Not feeling too well. Might have overdone things a bit."

Lestrade went cold. "Look at me, Sherlock."

When the young man obliged, his eyes were so dilated that Greg could scarcely see any iris at all.

"Shit, you're high."

Sherlock giggled. "Your powers of deduction never cease to amaze me, Detective Inspector. Fancy that, a person you know to be a cocaine addict is actually, for the first time, under the influence of the drug in your presence. Wait, no, I'm wrong. I seem to recall being high at that bar when you first showed up. So, twice, out…. of how many times? Four- well, a lot more if you count the three weeks it took to put the Pountney case together. That's not bad for me. You should feel honoured."

"What the hell, Sherlock. Why?"

"Why what?" He looked confused. "Do you mean why did I break into your flat? That's easy. I deduced when I tailed you home that your wife wasn't here, so I waited until you were asleep, because it was unlikely she'd be returning at this hour. I didn't want to disturb you- just needed a place to rest for a couple of hours that my brother hasn't figured out yet. Managed to get here off CCTV so he won't know. You did offer to help; or was that just being polite?" He looked a bit worried, as if he'd misunderstood the text.

"No, I meant what I said, although I Have to admit that I didn't realise you'd take me up on it in the middle of the night. But let's rewind a bit here. Why were those men after you today?"

"You saw me then- when, on Victoria Street? That was the only time Mycroft's minions got within spitting distance of me, so it must have been then."

"Yeah- I was across the road when you had your little rant at the CCTV camera. Jeez- it makes my skin crawl that your 'big brother' is actually a kind of real Big Brother. Must be a downer."

"You have no idea."

"So, what's got him excited at the moment? Is it the drugs?"

"You might say that. If he had his way, he'd wrap me up in cotton wool, and put me in a cage to keep me 'safe'. He doesn't approve of my involvement in the Rafe Stevens case; says it 'put me onto the path of too much temptation'." The baritone voice gave a surprisingly accurate mimicry of the young man in the three piece suit that Greg remembered from seven years before.

Greg's laugh was short lived. "What I actually meant by my first question is ..why are you back on the coke?"

Sherlock started to say in his usual flippant tone "why n…" but Greg interrupted.

"No, don't say that again. I really mean it. Why would someone with your brain do something so amazingly stupid? I just don't get it. So don't trot out some trite little slogan or just laugh it off as being 'bored.' I want the truth. If I'm going to offer you the chance to come down off of your high on my sofa, then I want some straight answers."

"Now you're beginning to sound like one of Mycroft's therapists- the people he made me talk to before I was allowed out of his idea of jail." Sherlock's sneer was evident.

"You mean, rehab? When you left the station seven years ago that's where you said he would take you. Did he?"

"Oh, yes- six months incarceration that time before I figured out what the shrinks in there needed to hear from me before they would let me out. It was easier the second time."

"The _second_ time…just how many times has it been, Sherlock?"

"Just twice, although if he has his way, there will be another soon."

"Why? And by that I mean, why now? And also why at all?"

"My brother's inability to make me do as he wishes eventually gets to this stage. First, he threatens financial strangulation, if I don't 'mend my ways', then admonishment- which never works- followed by physical restraint, and then 'medication'. Rehab just involves a different set of drugs,Lestrade; the difference is I don't choose to take them, they are forced on me against my will."

Greg took this in and decided he needed a cup of coffee if he was going to continue. "What does caffeine do to you when you're in this state?" he asked as he headed for the kitchen.

He heard the derisory reply. "Not much- my brain is already enjoying the effects so much that adding a bit more stimulation doesn't matter."

As he prepared the coffee, Greg considered the situation. _Thank God, Louise isn't here. She just wouldn't get this._ He suddenly thought- "Sherlock, don't you DARE light up a cigarette in here; she'll kill me as well as you!"

When he returned to the living room carrying two cups of black coffee, he found Sherlock sitting with his eyes closed and a contented smile on his face.

"Sherlock, drink some coffee. And then answer the question that you've been avoiding for the past ten minutes."

That got him to open his eyes, looking at Greg with some surprise. He took the coffee and drank a bit as Greg flopped onto the sofa and blew across the top of the steaming mug to try to cool in down a bit.

Sherlock gave a little sigh. "It won't make any sense to you- the reason."

"Try me."

He made a face. Then another sigh. The silence lengthened. Finally, he started; "It's not easy to explain. I don't _think_ like you do; or, rather, you don't think like me. So my motivations won't make sense. I mean it literally, Lestrade. My brain has neurochemical reactions that are different to yours. Why do you think I studied chemistry, if not to understand just what is going on in this brain of mine? Neurotransmitters in…people like me…don't work the same way yours do."

"As a result, people have been drugging me since before I could walk- trying to make me 'normal', whatever that is supposed to mean. I have what others call Sensory Processing Disorder. So in an attempt to create 'order', they've treated me with an entire pharmacy of drugs to deal with symptoms that normal people consider abnormal. Drugs to treat irritability, anxiety, disrupted sleep patterns, repetitive behaviour, self-stimulation, ADHD, depression, aggression. Loads of labels…"

He shrugged his shoulders. "As a result, I've been given drugs all my life- anti-psychotics, beta blockers, selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors- that's an antidepressant by the way. Then there were the neuroleptics, stimulants, pain killers of all types. All of those were legal and administered whether I wanted them or not."

He stopped, drew breath, had a sip of the coffee, and then continued. "In almost every case, they don't have the effect on me that people expect. It's called a 'paradoxical reaction'- give me something that is supposed to drug me into a stupor and I'm just as likely to get even more agitated- halperidol does that, much to the astonishment of A&E departments- except the one time that it actually induced catatonia. Even general anaesthesia- when I had my tonsils removed when I was six, I was still wide awake when they wheeled me into the operating room. When they did eventually get me under, I took four times as long to come out of it than anyone normal. I'm NOT NORMAL." This last phrase was uttered through gritted teeth.

"I have overly sensitive senses. I feel things you can't even begin to understand- the pressure of the cotton seams in this T shirt aggravate my skin to the point where if I had a choice, I'd prefer to be naked than put up with the constant irritation. Not socially acceptable, so I have to just lump it, don't I? I can smell things that you just screen out. The fact that you had curry for supper five hours ago is still in the fabrics of this room, in the pores of your skin, which I can smell by the way, along with your stale deodorant, shampoo and aftershave. I know you drank beer- not bitter or ale, it was lager, because I can smell the difference in the malts. Your wife's choice of perfume is all over this chair, for example, and is giving me a headache. Sometimes, the scent of someone's sandwich is so revolting to me, I have to leave a room because it makes me nauseous. Don't get me started on food- tastes explode in my brain, and some are so strong that they make me physically sick. I don't eat much because doing so is actually unpleasant for me nine times out of ten.

"Oh, and let's go on to talk about hearing. I can hear the sound right now of the florescent bulb in your kitchen- it buzzes. Every noise- traffic outside, even at this hour, the dog you can't hear barking about five hundred meters from here to the left out the back of the flat. In a crowded room, every noise is amplified and comes in as one giant cacophony that I have to try to decipher and make sense of. I can even hear the fact that your mobile phone is recharging in the kitchen."

Greg looked at the young man in front of him with something akin to horror. "Shit," he said softly. "I always knew that Sam didn't like noises, but I didn't realise…"

This admission brought a tiny wry smile to Sherlock's lips. "I thought as much; whoever Sam is - a relative?" Greg nodded and said, "nephew."

"Your attitude was more…tolerant about my eccentricities from the start, which I didn't appreciate much at sixteen. Now I do."

Greg didn't reply. He figured that enough people would have made enough patronising comments to Sherlock to last a lifetime. He decided he wouldn't add to them by suggesting that he could understand what the young man sitting quietly in his wife's chair must be feeling.

"People don't understand that I have no choice in all this. It just is. The upside is that I can see things and understand things that normal people miss, and I've figured out what they mean when it comes to crimes. Putting the pieces together is something I can actually do with all that …stuff. I know it's the only thing that I will ever be truly gifted in doing, which is why I really, really want to do this work with you."

Greg nodded. "Well, I'm not going to argue; you know how much I appreciated your help two weeks ago, not to mention bringing the Pountney stuff to me, and for saving my face at that pub. But, you don't need to be high to do that work; you were clean for three weeks while we put the case papers together."

Sherlock shrugged. "When I'm working, the demands of the case focus me, let me screen out the stuff that doesn't matter. That's why I _need_ to do this; it's the only thing that has ever competed with cocaine. When there's nothing to focus on, then the only thing that gives me relief is to slow the dopamine reabsorption rate. I can do that with nicotine, caffeine and stimulants of various sorts.

"So, if your question was, why do I use cocaine? The answer is that when I found a drug that actually makes me capable of focusing, filtering out the extraneous stuff- well, halleluiah- I'm in seventh heaven. The downside is that it is a class A substance that the world decides is 'bad' for me."

"From my point of view, the reverse is true. Under the influence, I can actually manage to function in a crowd of people. I don't get overwhelmed by the noise, scent, even the sight of people. I am not scared that people are going to take exception to what I say or do, shout at me, bully me, or worse. I don't mind making eye contact, because I don't get stressed that I can't understand how people are going to react to me. When I take cocaine, it is the closest I can get to being normal. Ever notice that 'normal' people don't like 'abnormal' people? When I'm high, I'm not afraid. For the short time, I can actually pass for normal. So, that's the reason why."

Greg just sat, stunned by the revelation. Eventually, he asked, "have you told anyone this before?"

Sherlock just shook his head, sadly. "You don't get it, do you? If I weren't high at this very moment, then there is no way I could be having this conversation with you. Most therapists only ask me 'why' when I'm off the drug, and I can't begin to explain it. No one wants to hear what I've just told you. It's far too logical. People expect cokeheads to be drug addled criminals. Because it isn't 'normal', people assume that I am taking cocaine as some sort of thrill seeking, that I'm after the euphoria, the kick. And, it's illegal, expensive, bad for my health and I am more likely to take risks. So they try to stop me."

"Cocaine has, from my point of view anyway, just the one downside – it's psychologically addictive; once I get the focus, the relief, then doing without becomes difficult. The physical side effects of withdrawal- headaches, nausea, agitation- well, a lot of that I have to live with all the time, even when I am not coming down from a high. There is another problem that is probably more serious- the more I take it, the less effect it has; my system needs more to achieve the same benefit. Sooner or later, the physical effects of upping the ante will probably kill me."

Greg took another long pull at his coffee, trying to figure out what possible response he could give to the young man's brutal honesty.

"What happens next?" he asked quietly.

Sherlock put his empty coffee mug down on the coffee table. He ran his hands through his hair and looked down at the carpet for a moment. "I need to sleep for a while. The odd thing is that when I am on cocaine, I actually sleep better than when I'm not. When is your wife back?"

"Not til Monday; her return flight lands at Gatwick at three forty five. You can stay here until Monday noon, as long as you don't do any more drugs."

Sherlock raised his head to look at the DI.

"No, Sherlock. I can't turn a blind eye to this. It isn't about you, OK? It's about me. I'm a senior officer in the Metropolitan Police Force. I can't have you here in my flat abusing a class A drug. But you are welcome to stay here and come down from it all. Give yourself a little time out. If you can stay off the drugs long enough, we might be able to work together on some cases. But there is no way in hell that I'll be able to do that if you don't get clean. I'm sorry- rules are rules, and I've already broken quite a few of them for you."

The young man just sighed, drew up his legs to his chest, and laid his head down on his arms. Greg remembered a night eight years before, when Sherlock had done the same. Greg got up and rummaged in the closet for a blanket and sheets. Then, on second thought, he got a pair of his soft pyjamas out of the drawer and dropped them onto the sofa, too.

"If those clothes are uncomfortable to sleep in, change into these. They'll be too big for you, but they're better than nothing, because the blanket will itch." There was no movement from the chair.

"Cheer up. At least this time, your brother isn't coming to pick you up."

Sherlock stirred and unfolded himself. He switched off the table lamp and said quietly, "I am grateful for small mercies, Detective Inspector. Good night."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten- 2003 Cold Turkey Cases Part Two**

* * *

When Greg woke up on Saturday morning, he found the young man in the kitchen, making coffee and scrambling eggs. "Eggs? I don't remember buying any eggs yesterday."

"You didn't; I went out and got some this morning. You really don't do the shopping very often, do you?"

"No, my wife prefers to do it."

"I can understand that, if your latest grocery run was anything to go by. You forgot to take her list with you. Beer and curry were not on it, but quite a few other things were that you missed. I took it with me, so she won't know." He put a plate of perfectly scrambled eggs in front of Greg. "Bread is in the toaster, and should be ready in a moment." He then turned to the sink and rolled up his sleeves, starting to wash up the pan.

"You didn't need to shop or cook for me; I could have done that."

"It gave me something to do. Actually, it was something of a challenge to get to the shops without getting onto any CCTV cameras. I needed something to keep me occupied. And cooking is no big deal; I'm a chemist, remember."

"Have you already eaten?" Greg mumbled as he took a forkful. The toaster popped up and he took the one slice, buttering it.

"No, I can't eat when I'm coming down."

This made Greg look more closely at Sherlock. "How awful is it?"

"Awful."

"What helps?"

Sherlock put the now clean pan in the dish drainer. "Keeping busy helps. Ideally, something intellectually challenging enough to distract me. I don't suppose you have a juicy triple murder that you would just _love_ to talk about?"

"No; can't say that I do. Actually, the last two weeks have been surprisingly quiet. A bit of gang related stuff, but the Drug Squad is handling it. That's why I thought I could take the weekend off."

"Just my bad luck."

Greg gave him a little rueful smile. "Bad luck for you, maybe, but good luck for potential victims."

Sherlock turned back and looked at him. He didn't smile. He started to roll down his sleeves, and Greg took a look. There were the obvious needle track marks, but then…"Bloody hell- are those nicotine patches?"

Sherlock looked down at his arm. "Yes, obviously. You said I wasn't to smoke in the flat. I had a few cigarettes on the way to the shop, but got these at the chemist."

"Sherlock, there are _three_ patches on your arm. You aren't supposed to do more than one; didn't you read the instructions? Nicotine overdoses are serious!"

He just sighed. "It's a proven fact that people on the spectrum are resistant to nicotine. Harder to get addicted to it, harder to get any effect of slowing dopamine reabsorption; we don't have the same number of nicotine neuroreceptors as you do. So, three patches." He gestured to his coffee mug on the kitchen counter. "and that's my third coffee."

"Christ, I'd be tap-dancing on the ceiling with all that in me," muttered Greg.

"Yeah, well, I told you I'm not normal, so can we talk about something else for a while? Or better yet, not talk at all." With that, he abruptly left the kitchen and went back into the living room, opening the newspaper and burying his head in it.

_OK, irritability is one sign of a cocaine crash_. Lestrade finished his breakfast and went off to shave and shower. While dressing, he turned on his laptop and had a quick run through some sites on addiction withdrawal. It made for depressing reading. But at least the process for cocaine withdrawal wasn't so physically brutal as from heroin or morphine.

When he got back into the living room, Sherlock was pacing. Twitchy with nerves, he was finding it hard to settle down. Greg tried to read the paper for a few minutes, but the fidgeting made it impossible. He just looked at Sherlock's pacing and asked mildly "I suppose chilling out in front of the TV or reading a book just isn't going to do it for you, is it?"

Sherlock snorted. "This is the worst part- feeling so cooped up. I daren't go out lest my brother spot me on CCTV, and he's got to the point now where he will recognise the withdrawal symptoms. He'll use that as an excuse to try to stick me into rehab. So, I have to 'disappear' for the weekend. I swear it is the worst part of this torture."

Greg got his laptop from the bedroom. "Try to find something distracting on that. Would prefer it not to be porn, just in case the wife gets curious." That invoked a snort, and a quiet "not my scene", but at least Sherlock sat down at the table.

oOo

"What would you normally be doing on a Saturday morning, Sherlock?" The question was mildly put, as Lestrade finished reading the paper and folded it up. The young man had been looking at Greg's laptop for the last hour. He looked up now, with a slightly puzzled look on his face. "What's Saturday got to do with anything?"

Greg looked equally puzzled. "I suppose it's the prejudice of a working man, but most of us normal mortals have something called a weekend, which means that Saturdays are 'me time'. What do you do for, I don't know, _recreation_?" He sounded hopeful. Perhaps he could find something else to distract the young man.

Sherlock looked back at the laptop. "Beyond the obvious recreational use of drugs, nothing springs to mind as what you would call a 'pastime'. I don't have hobbies." Here he managed to sound both scathing of the question and dismissive of the very idea of something as tedious as a hobby. If I were back at my flat, then I'd be doing experiments and working on various forensic chemistry papers that I have on the go. But, I can't get at the kit from here. By now, Mycroft will have staked out the premises, so going back there is not an option. So, no doubt in a few minutes, I'll just start to wear a hole in your carpet or try to avoid answering your inane questions."

Greg pursed his lips and thought about it. Aggressively rude- so the irritation must have gone up a notch. _Oh, joy, just another 36 hours to go before I can escape back to work._ "OK, how's this going to play out, Sherlock? Are you just going to get more and more obnoxious as the day progresses? I have no idea what to say or do, what to suggest that you do to cope with…whatever this is doing to you."

Sherlock looked up again, puzzled. "Why would you care? The sensible thing would be go on and do whatever it was you had planned to do today. Just ignore me. It's better all round."

Greg thought about that for a while and was sorely tempted to beat a hasty retreat. But, he had offered to help, whatever that meant, and he wasn't a coward. "I guess you don't have any friends, do you?"

Sherlock didn't even look around. "What do you think, Lestrade?" He tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice. "I don't have 'friends' to go 'hang out with', if that's what you're asking. People like me don't have 'friends'. I don't 'play well with others', as the saying goes. Can't be bothered to put up with their idiocy." The sneer was plain to hear.

"Why don't you call me by my first name, Sherlock?"

"It wouldn't be professional- when we are working together on crime scenes you need to keep your authority intact. It wouldn't do to be seen to be treating me any differently that one of your team. But, just don't expect me to call you 'Guv' or any such nonsense. So, Lestrade it is."

Practical and actually sensible under the circumstances. But, Greg still felt a bit like he'd been rebuffed. _Doesn't let anyone get anywhere near. Just like Sam._

Greg stood up and stretched. "Well, what I had planned for today was a ride on my motorbike. I'd be happy for you to ride along, if you want some fresh air."

Sherlock looked up in surprise. "You have a motorbike." He blinked. "That's interesting; I would not have thought that of you." He then smirked. "I bet the wife just _hates_ it."

Greg looked a bit chagrined. "Yeah, well I did it a lot before I met her; haven't been able to get the Norton out as much recently as I'd like. Come along- I have an extra crash helmet, bought it in the mistaken belief I could convince Louise to take it up. The helmet means that your brother won't be able to identify you on CCTV. And you can wear one of my jackets which will help disguise you." He grinned when that got a smile from the young man.

"What sort of Norton?"

"Oh, you're a fan?" When Sherlock nodded, Greg went on. "She's a Norton P11A 750cc Ranger."

The young man's eyes widened. "OH, an antique! And rare as hen's teeth. How on earth did you get a desert scrambler made for the American export market?"

Greg tried not to look too smug. "Made in 1968, but when I bought it in 1989, it was lying in pieces in a box at the back of a south London garage, owned by a homicide victim. The widow was happy to sell it to me, and I spent the next decade restoring it."

So, Saturday passed in a blur off the back of a motorcycle. As distraction therapy went, it worked a treat on Sherlock. The novelty certainly helped. And being able to move freely in London without his brother being any the wiser was a great tonic. They went out the A40 towards Oxford. When he wanted speed, they'd do a stint on the M40, but the straight lines of the motorway were not as interesting as the more meandering path of the A road. Sherlock had obviously ridden before, and knew how to move his body weight in synch with Greg's when they cornered a sharp bend.

Greg stopped at the Kings Arms at Wheatley for lunch. He ordered a pint for himself, and asked if Sherlock wanted one. "No. I am not a fan of real ale- or beer for that matter. And alcohol in my current situation is not a good idea."

Greg ordered him a lime and soda. "When was the last time you ate something?"

Sherlock had to think. "Thursday- I had a take away."

Greg just closed his eyes for a moment. _More than 48 hours ago; Christ, he's going to keel over._ "You will eat something now." He ordered two bowls of a hearty vegetarian stew and bread. "No arguments, Sherlock. I don't care how nauseated you might be feeling, I will not have you pass out on the back of my bike; you'll get yourself- and me- killed."

He managed to keep the meal down, but wasn't able to do the same for the dinner that Greg prepared when they got back. Greg had put the bike back into the lock up garage, and was followed up the stairs by a silent Sherlock. He shrugged off the borrowed leather jacket, and stood looking down at the floor motionless, until Greg pointed him at the shower and told him to warm up. He was still silent over their simple meal of fried fish and chips. An hour later, he was in the loo throwing up. Greg just gave him a sympathetic smile when he emerged pale as a ghost. He'd made the sofa up and put out the pyjamas again, left a glass of water on the coffee table and left him to try to get some sleep. Sherlock hadn't said a word for three hours, and he didn't reply to Greg's "good night."


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven- 2003 Cold Turkey Cases Part Three**

* * *

Sunday was worse. When Greg emerged from his bedroom, he found Sherlock wrapped up in the blanket sitting up on the sofa, but staring blankly into the room. He looked awful.

"Can you eat?"

Sherlock gave one tiny shake of his head, but avoided eye contact completely. Greg went to the corner shop and brought a paper back. He wasn't even sure that Sherlock had realised he was gone. The mug of black coffee he'd left behind had gone cold, untouched.

Greg sighed. An hour later, and the young man was still a picture of misery. It made Greg feel helpless. He just asked quietly, "what can I do to make this any easier on you?" Sherlock didn't look up. "Find me a case, Detective Inspector, or I think I shall go mad."

"Why does thinking about crime help? I don't get that. Explain it to me."

Sherlock looked for a moment as if he'd forgotten how to speak. His brow furrowed and he grimaced. "I don't know why; it just is. Ever since I was a child, it was always the puzzle that kept my interest. It's what I do. I figure things out, the relationship between the bits of data, the facts, what I see, smell, hear. I put it together with what I know, and can deduce and then, suddenly, the solution is clear. Working on it means I can shove aside all the other stuff coming in; I get excited, it helps me focus, and I think it must have a biochemical basis- release of adrenaline and endorphins or something. It's the only true pleasure I get. And if I'm thinking about a case, I don't think about anything else- how sick I feel, or hungry or in pain in some way. It's the only time I can actually ignore what I am feeling. I can't explain the sheer bliss of being able to focus." He sighed.

"So, if I were to bring you a pile of cold cases- ones that were never solved, could that work?"

That made Sherlock look up at him, for the first time all day. "Oh, yes, please."

So, Lestrade took the bike out again and drove into New Scotland Yard, pulled a dozen files from the cold case drawers and came home with them. Sherlock was dressed and pacing by the time he got home, and virtually threw himself onto the files. He scanned all twelve first, saying nothing. When Greg tried to say something, he just got a terse "shut up."

Within ten minutes Sherlock had separated them into four piles. Greg watched, with a puzzled look. He made himself a cup of tea, and then put one down on the coffee table beside Sherlock, who picked it up absently and drank it down without even shifting his focus from the first file that he was now reading in depth.

"What's with the piles?"

This time, Sherlock explained quickly, as if begrudging any time not focussing on the material in the file. "The first pile over there", he gestured at the files at the far left, "are so easy as to be idiotic, and not really worth the time to read them through."

Greg was scandalised. "Sherlock, repeated police investigations have failed to turn something up; you can't just dismiss them as 'too easy'. Gimme an idea what you think is involved."

"Later- when I get bored. Right now, I want to concentrate on the four cases here that are actually interesting. Once I've figured them out, in desperation, I will look at the others but only in ascending order of idiocy." He started to pull out the crime scene photos of the first file. He looked up for a moment. "Have you got some tape, or blu-tack? I need to put these up on a wall."

Greg looked scandalised. "Not on these walls you won't. Louise will kill me if you damage the paintwork. This is a customised paint blend that took her ages to get right."

"Oh, really, Lestrade. What's important here? Solving a crime or leaving a few marks on a wall?" His indignation was clear. So, too, was the fact that he seemed to have ten times as much energy now as he had before when he was sitting listlessly on the sofa wrapped up in the blanket feeling sorry for himself.

In the end, Sherlock did it on the tiled walls of the bathroom, and the glass shower door. A little cramped when it came to an evidence board, but Greg had to admit that it worked. He finished the first case before lunch. Greg stood in the doorway of the bathroom as Sherlock explained.

"The forensic team should be shot, Detective. It really is beyond belief that they could have missed the void in the blood spatter. I mean just look at it!" He gestured to the photograph.

"There was a man standing there against the wall- approximately 5 foot 8 inches, and a little overweight, too, given the space. The chief suspect, Robert Jones, was identified by DI Gregson, who by the way must be way overdue for retirement, given the egregious mistakes he made in the case, was clearly not the only culprit- he was over six foot and thin, given his sessions down at the gym. No, Lestrade, the obvious fact is that the murderer had an accomplice- the car valet from the hotel."

Greg looked utterly confused. "What hotel? I thought the crime took place at the victim's home?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, do try to keep on the same page, Lestrade, really! The wife's statement makes it clear that her husband was trying to lose weight and tone up after a lifetime at a desk job. What he didn't realise at the time was that she was cheating on him with a gym instructor. So, when she bought him the leisure club membership _at the hotel_, the two lovers were hoping that he'd overdo it and have a heart attack. Every time he was at the gym, they were back home doing a different kind of gymnastics. The car valet was their lookout- he'd phone when the husband left the club, to give the lovers time to go their separate ways. A simple check of the phone records proves that much. But, the valet must have been greedy- probably tried to blackmail the instructor and/or the wife, but got in way over his head, so the trainer decided to take things in his own hands- literally, but he made sure that the car valet was there, too. The medical examiner got causes of death right- strangulation, after a stab to the throat."

Sherlock just laughed at this point, bringing his hands under his chin as if in prayer. "What your lot couldn't prove was that he did it when the wife and he both had an alibi. His was obviously false."

"How can you say that? It was checked and double-checked at the time. Surely, the team wouldn't have made such a mistake?"

"Of course they did. Police make mistakes all the time, Lestrade; they're idiots."

"Watch it, sunshine. Those are my colleagues you're talking about."

Sherlock snorted. "Well, if you are looking at me to say you're the exception that proves the rule, I can only attest to that on the cases where you've been smart enough to involve me."

"All right, smartass, I'll bite, why do you think the gym instructor's alibi is wrong? I mean that photo right there has him not at the house at the time of the murder. That's him at the gym at the time of the murder, which is clearly indicated on the gym CCTV. They had it installed after some thefts in the locker room. The instructor is leaving the locker room for his Thai kick-boxing class."

The tall youth just looked up into the bathroom mirror and caught Greg's eye, with a big smirk. "Well, beyond the obvious fact that the hotel car valet was the person to verify his presence at the gym, it's wrong because the gym instructor is right-handed, which is clear from the leisure centre staff photo over here. Just look- his watch on the left wrist, cuff worn on the right from writing – see the biro stain?- and, for God's sake, look at the musculature. This is a tennis player, and the shoulder muscles are huge on the right side compared to the left, after all those smashes and serves."

Greg still looked perplexed. "I don't get what his handedness has to do with disproving an alibi."

This made the young man lower his head into his hands for a moment. "In this case, you have not one but TWO pieces of evidence that not only the team investigating but now you, too, have overlooked. For God's sake, look at the CCTV picture!"

Greg looked blankly at the photo.

Sherlock sighed. "You observe but you do not see….The person in that photo is clearly LEFT handed- look at the way he is opening the door! Yes, the instructor teaches the boxing class regularly at that gym, but under all that kit- the white jacket, the gloves, the padded helmet, the boots on his feet, can you really identify him conclusively as the suspect? Or might it just have been another man with the same basic body shape and colouring?"

Greg took a closer look. "Now that you mention it…."

"So, go back and check the car valet's work records. You will find that he wasn't actually on duty at the time when he is supposed to have been there to verify the gym instructor's presence. And, he's probably the one who has the murder weapon. If you do it right, you'll probably get him to confess to being a blackmailer and to false testimony, rather than face a murder charge. And, you can even offer him immunity in exchange for providing the evidence that the gym instructor was the murderer."

Greg just looked at Sherlock; really looked, in amazement. Then he drew a deep breath. "It all sounds plausible. We'll check it out."

"Plausible? Is that the best you can do?" Sherlock looked affronted, if not outright insulted. He snarled, "Take this lot down and let me get going on the next one."

Greg did as he was told, but then decided to get something underway in terms of lunch. He pre-heated the oven and pulled the pizza from the freezer. He'd planned his weekend meals carefully to indulge each one of his favourite foods that he was never allowed to eat by his wife, who argued that they were 'unhealthy, unappetising, and downright common'. When it was ready, he brought a plate back into Sherlock who was head-down over the next file, with photos strewn across the coffee table. Without a word, he picked up the slice and bit off a big mouthful, his eyes still focused on the incident report.

He therefore didn't see the smirk on Greg's face. Clearly, if the young man's attention was elsewhere focused, he would eat. Make it a confrontation and he wouldn't. Sam was like that, too; he didn't like the social aspects of eating. He hoped that the drug withdrawal would not mean he'd lose this meal as he had last night's supper.

The first half of the afternoon passed quietly. Sherlock moved into the bathroom after about an hour of looking at the second file, and twenty minutes later, he called Greg in for an explanation. This one was even better than the gym instructor and the car valet. It involved a series of linked rapes on Clapham and Blackheath Commons, which escalated in brutality until the fifth one was killed. The police never managed to come up with a viable suspect. There was DNA evidence linking them but wasn't on file anywhere. Sherlock mapped the interval between the rapes, plotted the timetables and deduced that the perpetrator was in fact a janitor at a local comprehensive school; midterm breaks, early closing days, and snow closures linked up with the physical evidence on the crime scenes- same boot patterns and clothing fibre traces, which the original investigating team had said were 'common as dirt' in fact turned out to be exclusive to the contract company that supplied the janitorial staff.

Lestrade had a physical description (_He's five eleven and about 180 lbs; probably has a back injury, because the footprint patterns show he's in pain_) and a choice of two comprehensive schools to consider- and was delighted.

By the time four o'clock rolled around, Sherlock had solved the other two files in the first pile. He seemed undaunted by the task of continuing on to the next pile. "These are easier- I'll be done with these four by six or seven at the latest."

Greg was still in a bit of shock. His brain was buzzing with trying to follow all the mental gymnastics required to keep up with Sherlock's deductions. He decided he needed a bit of air. "Want to come with me? Getting out of here might help."

Sherlock just waved him away. "No, no, no- might show up on CCTV and Mycroft will get excited. I'm happy to carry on." He raised his eyes briefly from the file he was engrossed in, "Do save me a cigarette or two from the pack you are going out to buy. I might have a smoke up on the roof later, when I want a break."

Greg gave a wry smile. That was exactly what he was planning to do, just didn't want to admit it. The nicotine patch on his arm itched. It had been there for nearly 24 hours, and he had promised himself on his "boy's weekend in" that he would eat, smoke and sleep in a way he didn't around his wife. Of course, at the time Louise had told him she would be away, he had no idea that he's be sharing the flat with a lanky genius coming down from cocaine but staving off withdrawal by fixating on cold cases. It was a strange old world, Lestrade mused as he walked to the nearest newsagent to buy his cigarettes.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve- 2003 Cold Turkey Cases Part Four**

* * *

"You're looking tired, Guv. Busy weekend?" DS Sally Donovan looked at the bags under her boss's eyes and worried a little. Usually, when Lestrade took a weekend off, it meant he returned to work refreshed and re-energised, happy to get stuck into work again.

"Nope." The monosyllabic reply caught her off guard. Even when he was grumpy, Lestrade didn't clam up, so something was definitely not right.

She started to open her mouth again.

"Just leave it, Donovan, I'm not in the mood."

Definitely not right. Lestrade did not talk about his private life at work, but she worried that something might have happened at home to put him in this mood.

He looked at her sternly. "I want you to organise a full team meeting in a half hour- everyone, including the forensic boys and girls. We're re-opening ten old cold cases; I've got new leads."

When he got into his office, he opened his brief case and pulled out the pile of files. Twelve of the coldest cases his team had managed to fail to solve over the past five years, and he now had real leads and lines of enquiry on ten of them, and could close the other two. To say the weekend had been difficult would be an understatement, but that didn't mean it wasn't productive.

He closed his tired eyes, and drank from his coffee. His desk at New Scotland Yard was clear of anything personal, apart from one framed photo of Louise, which he glanced at now. She would be landing back at Gatwick at 3.45pm, and wanted him to come home early, "if possible; I know you can't predict when a murderer might strike, but it would be nice to think that you will have missed me." He decided that there was no way in hell he was going to tell her about his 'house guest'. If she asked what he had got up to over the weekend, he'd tell her everything about the motor bike jaunt, the cold cases on Sunday- but not that he'd shared the experience with a tall lanky young man with a drug problem.

Before he briefed the team, he needed to call the morgue. He'd promised Sherlock that he would get him access to a body that was reported on Friday morning- a John Doe fished out of the Thames at St Katharine's Dock near Tower Hill. The autopsy report should be ready, and Greg wanted his professional opinion as to whether it merited investigation as a homicide or a suicide. After this weekend, Lestrade had no qualms about asking him to do this.

"Brilliant!" was the reply and Sherlock's face had lit up like a Christmas tree. Lestrade gave a sigh of relief; it was a way to get him out of the flat with something to think about other than where to go to get another hit.

When he emerged from his office fifteen minutes later, it was to a full duty room. The officers looked expectant, so Lestrade decided to tell them upfront what he was feeling.

He crossed his arms in front of his chest and gave them a scowl. "You …are a bloody useless lot." There were a few uncertain faces at that, a couple of sideways glances between them.

"I've spent the weekend going through twelve of the oldest, coldest cases we've got on file, and the only conclusion I can draw from the experience is that you are going to have to raise your game. If the reputation of this team were to be based on your performance on these cases, then we'd have to pay back some of the wages you've been banking over the past five years. Now, I know that some of you have joined the team since these cases were filed as 'cold', but that's no excuse. We've had plenty of quiet times when you were encouraged to revisit these files. "

There were a few rumbles in the back, quiet snatches of conversation between team members.

"Don't believe me? OK, let me walk you through the twelve cases I checked out on Sunday, in descending order of stupidity. We'll start by taking the one in 1998, where the body of Harry Jameson ended up on the roof of a block of flats in Hackney. He was beaten to hell and gone. No suspect, no ideas. Remember that one?" He glared at Anderson, the chief forensics officer –both then and now. "A simple look around the crime scene would have revealed how the body got there. Look at this photo and tell me what you see." He projected it from his laptop onto the incident room's whiteboard. Silence fell.

Greg just looked them. He put his hand to his forehead in disbelief. "You really don't see it, do you?!" No one made a sound.

"OK- prepare to feel foolish. Take a look at the apartment block next door. That one…" he gestured to it. "See the crane? This is a _suicide_ guys, not a homicide. Harry had gambling problems but wanted to leave his wife with some insurance money, so he took the easy way out, but did it so no one would be the wiser to his topping himself. The Monday morning construction team started up the crane as usual without thinking about the body on the roof below, which they wouldn't have been able to see, swung the crane back into action. And you never even thought about it when the body was discovered up there on Tuesday."

He raised another folder up and shook it at them. "Here's another accidental death that was wrongly attributed as a homicide. Anderson, I want you to pick that one up, and close it _properly_ this time." He then gestured to the pile of ten folders left on the table in front of him. "There are ten folders left. Divide them up between you and read the notes inside. Every last one of these has new leads to be followed up, and tracked down, because one or more of you missed something crucial. I want a report from you by four o'clock today on progress." And with that, he walked out, leaving a room of stunned detectives behind.

"Flipping heck, Sally! Lestrade's wife should go away more often if he's going to do that kind of work when he's on his own." This came from DI Gregson, whose eyes widened as he digested the note at the front of the Robert Jones file. "The car valet? Who would have thought it? You and I've got our work cut out for us, trying to dig him up after six years."

From behind the blinds in his office, Lestrade watched with a grin as the various officers picked through the files and got to work. He wished that Sherlock could have been here to see their looks of incredulity. On the other hand, he was glad that the young man was happily ensconced in the morgue, puzzling over a cadaver. He might not have been able to cope with the smugness of Sherlock's smile otherwise.

By lunchtime, the room was buzzing with officers coming in and out; phones were going, and the white board had been commandeered to list each of the ten cases, with officers assigned, leads listed and status updates being made. It was a hive of industry that made Lestrade smile.

He decided to celebrate by going for a sandwich at his favourite place in St James. On his way, he texted Sherlock.

**12.38pm Noses to grindstone here, much embarrassment. Any progress at Barts? **

**12.39pm Fascinating! Homicide suspected; will advise on progress when I get the corroborating evidence from crime scene. SH**

**12.40pm WHAT crime scene?!**

**12.41pm Based on tide and current patterns, body dumped in Thames at Blackfriars; tar on body traced to construction site at Rennie Street. Taking samples now. SH**

**12.42pm SHERLOCK! Don't touch anything! I'm calling a forensics team in now.**

**12.42pm Who, the idiots who can't tell a suicide from a homicide? SH**

Before Lestrade could hit the speed dial for the office, his phone pinged again.

**12.43pm Don't worry. I'm done here. I'll bring it to NSY.**

By now, Greg was standing in the middle of the pavement looking at his phone in disbelief. For that reason alone, he did not spot the two men who approached behind him, until one of them placed his hand on the detective's shoulder. He spun around, startled, and looked into the cold eyes of a suited man. With a copper's instincts, he knew that the man was carrying a concealed weapon.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, your presence is required. Do please get into the car." He gestured to the black car that pulled up to where they were standing.

Greg looked at the two of them. "Who are you?" he asked mildly, but he already had a suspicion he knew. He recognised the second man from Friday's attempt to corral Sherlock. _One of Mycroft Holmes' 'minions', as Sherlock would say._

"My name doesn't matter. You met the man I work for some eight years ago when he collected his brother from your police station. You'd best oblige us by coming quietly."

"And if I don't?"

"Then I have been authorised to advise you that the next call he makes will be to the Detective Assistant Commissioner, who will ensure that you do comply."

Greg sighed. No point in raising everyone's blood pressure. He raised his hand in defeat. "Let me finish dealing with this text, then I'll come willingly."

**12.45pm Big Bro wants a word with me. **

There was no reply to his text. _Shit_. Lestrade pondered that silence for the next twenty minutes, as the car made its way across Westminster Bridge and along York Street. He guessed where they were going about ten minutes into the journey- probably, Rennie Street.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen- 2003 Cold Turkey Cases Part five**

* * *

When the government car pulled off York onto the narrow road running north to the river, Greg saw the construction site. The office block going up was suspiciously silent, no evidence of work going on. The car pulled onto a freshly tarmacked driveway into the site and one of the agents in the car got out and shut the chain link fences behind them. The DI was escorted out of the car and across to the temporary offices of the site. The one who had chased Sherlock opened the door to the portakabin and gestured him in.

At the end of the rectangular room stood Mycroft Holmes, in a three piece suit that whispered of Jermyn street custom tailoring; he was looking down at the handle of an old fashioned, tightly furled umbrella. He raised his eyes to meet Greg's as he came up to the table in the middle of the room, which was covered in blueprints and computer print-outs.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, we meet again." This was delivered in a mild tone that nevertheless somehow conveyed both a sense of disappointment and menace. Lestrade's internal radar was flaring, but he decided that he could be afford a little heat in his response.

"Mycroft Holmes. I'd like to say that this is a pleasure, but, it isn't. I'm a busy man in the middle of a series of investigations and I do object to being kidnapped off the street in broad daylight. If you wanted to talk to me, the civilised way would be to have your PA set up an appointment."

This provoked a chilly smile. "No time, I am afraid. I hoped to get here while Sherlock was still on the scene, but alas, someone seems to have tipped him off, and he's off camera again."

Mycroft continued. "I would like you to listen very carefully, Detective Inspector. I suspect and I can prove that Sherlock has recently spent time in your company, and that you have been aiding and abetting his penchant for sticking his nose into police work that he should not be doing. Not only is it inappropriate that a civilian be engaged in such work, it is also harmful to him on a personal basis. This morning my brother decided to emerge from the shadows, and willingly allowed me to trace his movements to St Barts' morgue and then here. My guess is that he thinks he is 'investigating' something that you probably asked him to look into. You needn't reply; I know that I'm right."

Greg looked at the elder Holmes. The intervening years had removed the youthful freshness that the detective had seen at the police station when Mycroft collected a sixteen year old Sherlock. His hair now receded further at the temples, and he wore thirty or more pounds of extra weight to go with the added levels of authority that he was exuding. Greg realised that if he had thought big brother to be mildly alarming the first time they met, to look at him now was quite frankly scary.

"What business is it of yours what I might or might not be doing with Sherlock?"

Mycroft tilted his head and gave a wry smile. "Oh, it's _definitely_ my business, Detective Inspector. I am still his legal guardian. And he is now a person who attracts the protection of both SOs 1 and 6*, so his movements are very carefully monitored, as are those with whom he has contact. May I ask what your… relationship is with my brother?"

Lestrade decided that a straight bat was needed. "He spent the weekend on my sofa withdrawing from cocaine."

"And just why would _you_ be willing to offer such….hospitality?"

Greg's brow furrowed. He knew he needed to be careful here. "You do know, or at least I think it's safe to assume you know, about how he approached me to deal with the Pountney Club?"

Mycroft just waved his hand. "Of course, and I assume that some sort of case has brought him here. I took the precaution of clearing the site, but we've still not been able to locate him. I believe I also have you to blame for getting him involved in solving that pathetic Stevens thing, too."

That made Greg annoyed. "Pathetic? No, that's not what I call it. Sherlock's ability to pick apart a crime scene and make sense of it is unique. He is gifted, and I've been fortunate enough to see that talent in action. He enjoys it. He says it keeps him sane. After this weekend, I believe him. And, in light of those talents, I thought it wise to help him get off the drugs, especially after I witnessed on Victoria Street the fact that he wants nothing to do with you or your men."

Holmes gave Lestrade a thousand meter stare- the sort that would have lesser men quailing in their boots. "I hate repeating myself, but it has been eight years, so perhaps your memory needs refreshing. I do not have the luxury of caring what my brother _wants_, Detective Inspector; I must consider what he _needs_. And that does not include any involvement with the police regarding homicides, drugs dealing or crime scene forensics. All of the above encourage his less desirable behaviours, his recent drugs relapse being a case in point."

He looked down and examined his umbrella again. "So, consider this a _cease and desist_ _order_, Mr Lestrade. However useful he might have been for your career in the past, you will not contact him again, nor will you involve him in any of your future work. In fact, any contact at all, even on a …personal basis…. will result in unfortunate consequences you might describe as career limiting."

Greg considered this threat very, very carefully. He had no doubt that the man standing in front of him could destroy his career. But, he also knew that the elder Holmes had no idea what made his brother tick. No one who could have seen Sherlock devour the cold cases could be so blasé about the good he was doing, and the good it was doing for him. Greg decided to risk a little.

He took a deep breath and plunged right in. "You haven't a clue about how to handle your brother, do you? I could tell that when you picked him up eight years ago. You were 23 and totally unaware of what it meant to be a parent, let alone one to someone like Sherlock. I have no doubt that he has driven you to distraction a thousand times, and every time, you're left wondering what you might have done differently in order to get a more satisfactory outcome."

Mycroft looked at him with a slightly puzzled look. "Is this an attempt to establish some _empathy_, Detective Inspector Lestrade? If so, save the sentiment for those who can afford to show it. You have no idea about my brother's history, nor what his …prognosis is."

"Ah, well there's where you're wrong, Mr Holmes. I know his reasons for taking drugs, which I am certain he has never, ever shared with you, nor any of the therapists you have subjected him to while in rehab. I know he is autistic, I know he has SPD, I know he has reasons to want to avoid you like the plague. I know because he has told me these things. I also know he's smart enough to work his way out of any rehab clinic you care to stuff him into, and then go out and do immediately what you don't want him to do, because he's a right bolshie little bugger who thinks he knows better, but doesn't."

Mycroft was now eyeing him like he was some sort of dangerous reptile- with wary suspicion.

Greg decided to carry on. _Might as well get hung for a sheep, as for a lamb._ "I also know that I share with you a deep dismay at the thought that such a mind could be destroyed by a cocaine habit. Unlike you, I know a magic bullet that stops his cravings cold, gets him to eat, sleep and …" he took a deep breath,"…I know what makes him genuinely happy."

Mycroft's cynical smile was matched by his acerbic tone: "He says he has found happiness at the end of a needle, and that I should just leave him to it. I won't do that, no matter what he says."

"Then maybe you haven't seen the Sherlock I've seen- the one who was clean and worked like a demon for three solid weeks with a Met task force to get cases ready for prosecution. Cases that he identified even though they'd never been reported. You didn't watch him this weekend pull himself out of a withdrawal funk because I gave him twelve of the coldest cases the Yard had. You didn't see his genius at solving those in a single day, and I _know_ you didn't see the absolute joy he took in doing so. I did. So, forgive me, but I think I just might have a better idea of what your brother _needs_ right now than you do."

A silence fell between the two men. It was broken as the door to the portakabin opened and a baritone voice said, "Mycroft, really. Just for once in your life, listen to someone else, if you won't listen to me."

Sherlock came in and stood next to Lestrade. "He's telling the truth."

For a moment, Mycroft just looked at Sherlock, _really_ looked. Greg realised that both the Holmes brothers appeared to share the same ability to see things that other people missed. Mycroft was examining Sherlock with a forensic intensity. Then, he frowned. "You're _still_ in withdrawal, after three days of abstinence. So, it was a serious binge this time, little brother."

Sherlock met his stare with a defiance of his own. "That was then, this is now. Let's talk about the now. I mean it, Mycroft, just leave me alone. This is good for me; for once, just once, let me be the judge of it." He was livid but there was just the hint of a plea in his tone.

Mycroft looked at his brother with a sad smile. "He may have convinced you of that, Sherlock, because it is in his best interests to do so. He's abusing your talents to further his own career. The Detective Inspector is taking advantage of a vulnerable person for his own personal gain, which is highly unethical and borders on unprofessional conduct. A disciplinary hearing would also question his …sanity at involving on crime cases a drug addict with your record. It could jeopardise every court case that had you touched. All that aside, it's putting you at risk, this…puzzle work. The more he gets you to work on his cases, the more he puts at risk both your physical and mental health. He should know better."

Greg was aghast. How could Sherlock's brother level that kind of charge at him? For a moment, he panicked at the thought that others might see it the same way. "I was trying to _help_..." he whispered lamely.

Sherlock just snarled at his brother. "You insufferable prig, Mycroft; you're despicable to accuse him of such a thing! _I_ was the one who came to Lestrade; if anyone is being manipulative here, it's me! You know that, so don't play your mind games now. He's a good man, and won't understand why you'd say such an awful thing. It isn't _fair_."

Before Mycroft could reply, Sherlock whirled around in utter frustration, and slammed his fist into the wall. He started to shout, "Just back off, and let me do this! Why can't you get it into your head that it's the only thing that I actually care about, it's the only thing that anyone is ever going to respect or admire me for? I have so little else, how dare you try to take this away, too!" He was shaking with rage.

Mycroft calmly contemplated the sight. He put his umbrella on the table and closed the distance between him and his brother. Taking his left wrist in a firm grip, he turned Sherlock around to face him and then took his right wrist in the same hold. He said quietly but firmly, "Stop this now, Sherlock, your withdrawal is pushing you into a melt-down."

For a second, Sherlock refused to look at Mycroft and just drew ragged breaths; but then he suddenly shoved his brother back hard against the table. Instinctively, Mycroft let go of his brother to stop himself from falling, and in that moment, the tall brunet just burst out of the door and down the stairs, knocking over the agent outside, who slipped on the construction site mud, and went down on one knee. Mycroft recovered his balance and shouted, "Stop him!" but Sherlock had already vanished into the half- built building shell by the time Mycroft got to the door and down the metal stairs. Lestrade followed behind him.

"Damn!" Mycroft's expletive echoed Lestrade's own reaction.

Greg's comment, "Well, that didn't end well, did it?" earned him a withering look from the elder Holmes, who snapped "if you ever have anything more to do with my brother, Lestrade, I swear I will destroy you."

* * *

**Author's note:** *****SO6 (Special Operations Six) is the unit of the Metropolitan Police which is responsible for diplomatic protection. SO1 is "Specialist Protection". While most of us think of the DPG as protecting foreign embassy and consulate staff and their families, it also gives the same undercover armed protection to members of the UK government, civil servants and others who are considered to be "at risk" due to the nature of their work, as does SO1. Mycroft would qualify, and Sherlock would be designated as a protected family member. It is highly likely however that Mycroft would prefer his own people to look after Sherlock on a more intensive basis than would be possible under police protection.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen- 2003 Cold Turkey Cases Part Six**

* * *

Greg Lestrade made it back to his flat in time to greet Louise, arriving at almost exactly the same time as her taxi back from Gatwick did. That evening she regaled him with stories about her hen weekend in Spain, still in holiday mode. When she asked politely what he had gotten up to while she was enjoying the sunshine, he just told her about the bike trip on Saturday and the cold case review on Sunday. She wrinkled her nose, "sounds _so_ _boring"_ was her only comment. He found his thoughts wandering back to the events of the afternoon and Sherlock's shared enthusiasm for his police work. _For some of us, it's anything but boring_. But, he realised that it was a taste that his wife had never acquired, more's the pity.

He couldn't help but be worried about Sherlock. With his brother now more determined than ever to find him, Greg wondered how much longer the young man would be able to evade capture. He kept replaying the times that Sherlock and he had worked together, questioning his own motives for falling in quite so easily with the cases that had been brought to him. Were his motives 'pure'? Why did he agree quite so readily to involving him more than he would any normal civilian who brought him information about a homicide?

He had to admit that his involving Sherlock had benefited his career. He couldn't deny that charge from Mycroft. But, his willingness to listen to Sherlock was based on his respect for the quality of the information and the young man's appreciation of the police's need to corroborate evidence and present it properly to the Crown Prosecution Service. On that, Greg was sure that he had not crossed any professional boundaries that could call into question subsequent convictions. Sherlock was meticulous in not exposing the Met to anything like that.

He kept one ear on Louise's story about a pub crawl in Marbella, whilst he pondered Mycroft's other charge- that by "enabling" Sherlock's case work, he was threatening the mental and physical health of the young man. That was a harder one. His sympathy toward the Sherlock's predicament was borne of his own nephew's affliction. Autism was not easy on his parents, who struggled with his anti-social behaviour, his tantrums, his unwillingness to engage with people. A lot of their friends had dropped the couple from their regular family activities as a result, because Sam was just so difficult to handle in a crowd of kids. Greg had always been willing to try with Sam, even volunteering to babysit, because so few people were, and his sister adored him for making the effort.

So, when he realised the very first time he met him that Sherlock was a high functioning ASDie, it made him more open to listening to the young man and helping him. And, it could not be denied, Sherlock was a genius when it came to deducing what happened at crime scenes. He found it hard to reconcile his image of Sherlock revelling in the cold cases with Mycroft's dismissal of the process as 'puzzles' that endangered his physical and mental health. He supposed it was all rather academic now, as he was highly unlikely to ever even see Sherlock again. He sighed.

"Christ, Greg- you look like someone just died. Is my story boring you so much that you can't even attempt to sound interested?"

That shook him out of his reverie. "I'm so sorry; it's just been a long day."

She pouted. "It's always a long day with you, Greg. I just wish you could lighten up once in a while and not bring your work home with you." She cleared away the supper dishes and disappeared into the kitchen. He sighed again.

oOo

Two days later, Greg was still managing the team's work on the ten cold cases, all of which had become "hot" as a result of Sherlock's work, and his officers' further investigations. He'd put the body at St Katharine's dock case on hold; not enough resource to try to dig something up at the building site on Rennie Street, and the body was still unidentified.

Heading up from the St James' tube station toward the Yard, he realised he was being followed. He stopped at a restaurant window as if he were looking at the menu, but instead used the glass to reflect back to him an image of his pursuer- a young skinny girl, couldn't be more than fifteen. She looked a bit grubby, and he thought she might be sleeping rough. She realised he had spotted her and smirked, walking straight up to him.

"Hi, you're the Filth, otherwise known as DI Lestrade, and I have something for you." It was said quietly, and she pointedly turned her back to the street shielding her hands from view before she reached into her jacket and handed over a brown envelope. "Keep it tucked up, will ya? Lest BB sees." She flicked her eyes towards the street. Lestrade realised that she was looking at a CCTV camera reflected in the glass, and realised her reference to BB meant big brother. Because of the shadows cast by their bodies, what they were doing would not be seen on camera. She turned to go.

"Wait just a moment, young lady! Who is this from?"

"Siggy"

When Greg looked blank, she continued, "You know, tall, skinny, dark hair in a mess. He said you'd know."

"OH… that 'Siggy'." Must be a reference to his old fake ID name- Lars Sigurson. Sherlock.

"Uh, thanks. Is he OK?" Greg tried to keep his tone casual to match hers.

She gave him a guarded look. "What's it to you?"

Greg just shook his head. "Just give him my best regards, will you?"

"Yeah, if I see him again, I'll do that. Bye now."

He went into the nearest coffee shop and ordered a strong espresso before opening the envelope. Four sheets of paper, all but the first one filled with handwriting. An old fashioned carefully written script, but after the first few lines, Greg got the hang of deciphering it. And his brow was furrowed in dismay, by the time he finished the second paragraph.

_Detective Inspector Lestrade_

_Please accept my apologies for the way my brother behaved to you when we three last met. He made a number of insinuations that I must address. Lest there be any misunderstanding, I have enclosed with this note a full description of every case that I have brought to your attention, the role I played in them and how carefully I have endeavoured to ensure that all correct police procedures and evidential requirements were followed. I have had this note witnessed by two people, and notarised so it will stand up in court should you ever have the need to defend your actions. I am certain that there will be no issues regarding the safety of the convictions which resulted from your team's work, as both you and I are fully aware of the requirements of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act and police protocols. You have at no point acted unethically, unprofessionally or unkindly; the opposite is true. My brother was quite wrong in suggesting otherwise._

_On a personal note, can I reassure you that nothing that subsequently occurs should be in any way construed as relating to you. You are in no way responsible for what I am doing. It is a matter between my brother and me. In fact, I wish it to be known that had you been able to maintain contact with me as we both had hoped, then it might not have come to such an outcome. However, he has left with me with no choice, and I want to be known that what I do is because of him and his unwillingness to allow me any freedom at all._

_I hereby authorise you to show a copy of this letter and the attached document to my brother should he at any point threaten or take any adverse action against you. Should it prove insufficient to deter him, I advise you to telephone my solicitor at the number on the yellow note attached below. Once you have contacted him, he will send a copy of a file* which he has on record to both yourself and to my brother, with the intent of publishing it unless Mycroft Holmes desists from whatever action he may be taking against you. It should prove sufficient deterrent._

_I have respected your professionalism, and your personal kindness to me, but remain fully responsible for my own actions. It is with regret that I have to say goodbye,_

_Yours most sincerely,_

_Sherlock Holmes_

_PS. The body in the Thames is James McArthur, and he worked for the construction company at Rennie Street._

The formality of the letter surprised him. It was the sort of letter one might expect to read in a court case, or where there was public scrutiny being made of private actions. For a few minutes, Lestrade tried to puzzle through what it all meant. That Sherlock was making sure that his brother would not harm him- that much he could read. But what was he saying underneath the legal language? Greg was troubled, and worried. It all sounded so final. Too final.

_Oh, shit- this is a suicide note._ He looked up in a state of panic to see the normal morning commuters in the queue, ordering their coffees and preparing for their normal working day. For a moment, he could not catch his breath for wondering what the hell he could do to stop the process that the letter promised, if one just read between the lines. He closed his eyes for a moment. _Please, God, don't let me too late to stop this._ Then Greg gathered his things up and fled the coffee shop.

He ran to the office, and as soon as he crossed the threshold called out to the reception desk- "I need a car _immediately_ and a driver; there's a crime in progress!"

* * *

***Author's Note**: If you want to know what is in this file, read my story _Side Lines_, when the secret about Sherlock and Mycroft's relationship is uncovered.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen- 2003 Cold Turkey Cases Part Seven**

* * *

With an instinct that Lestrade would struggle to explain later, he instructed the driver to head south of the river to Rennie Street. Two days after his meeting with Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes there, the site was once again buzzing with activity. The police car tore into the site, siren and lights blazing, and he leapt out of the car almost as it finished rolling to a halt. He ran up the stairs of the portakabin site office, and burst in. The architect and site manager were deep in conversation over a set of plans on the table, and looked up, startled.

"I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade of the Metropolitan Police. I have reason to suspect a crime has been committed on this site, and I need to know if anyone here knows someone by the name of James McArthur."

The two men exchanged glances. One of them spoke up. "McArthur is the quantity surveyor for the site. He's been off work for the past week. We've called his office; they haven't seen him either. Neither his home number nor his mobile are being answered. Has something happened to him?"

"I'm sorry to have to tell you that yes, I do know where he is- he's dead and his body is at St Bartholomew Hospital's mortuary. His body was recovered from the river downstream at St Katharine's Dock."

They looked stunned. The site manager recovered first. "How on earth did he die?"

"That's what we are trying to figure out. There's been a suggestion that he was murdered. Would you have any idea why that might be the case?"

"James? Murdered? That's…preposterous. The guy was just a quantity surveyor, for Christ's sake. You know, they count bricks and estimate how much concrete we need to build the next floor. I mean there's no way it could be work related. Are you really sure he was murdered?"

Lestrade had no time to waste, so he decided to cut his losses at the site. "Have you got a home address? Or a phone number? I could really do with either right now." He needed to find Sherlock before it was too late, and instinct told him the fastest way was to follow the clues to the murder; He just might be able to catch up with a live Sherlock while he was still on the case.

It was the architect who thumbed through his contacts on his phone. "His home number is 0270-493 6869. Don't have an address."

"Thanks, I'll give you an update when I know more." And with that Lestrade strode out of the office, his phone already up to his ear. "Sally- get me a street address for the phone number 0270-493 6869. As quick as you can- it's a matter of life and death."

He was back in the car when she came back on the line. "It's SE17. That's in Southwark- Walworth, in fact, Guv- Number six, block E, Peabody Buildings, off 46 Rodney Road- about 10 to 12 minutes from where you are now."

He repeated the address to the driver and told him to get there as soon as humanly possible. The police car hit Rennie Street with lights and sirens on full and tore off, the mid-morning traffic scattering to the right and left as they ploughed their way across south London. The roundabout at Elephant and Castle slowed them a bit, but they made it up on the New Kent Road, before cutting off on Rodney Place and then left onto Rodney Road. Block E was the first of ten blocks of flats in the estate, built by the Peabody Trust in the 1960s. Number six was up on the third floor, the top of the low rise building. He banged on the door, but there was no answer. He gestured to the constable who had come up with him. "No ram, and no time to get a building supervisor up here. So let's do this the old fashioned way." Together they kicked at the door on the side with the lock. On the fourth attempt, the lock gave way, and Lestrade shouldered the door open.

He wasn't sure what he expected to find. After all, the body of the owner was already on a morgue slab at St Bart's. A quick scan around the living room revealed nothing out of the ordinary. James McArthur was a tidy man. It was when he started down the hall to the kitchen that he stopped, shocked by what he saw. There was an envelope pinned to the kitchen door, held there by a hunting knife stabbed right into the wood door. And on the envelope he could read the handwritten words "DI Lestrade". With a chill, Greg recognised the handwriting from the letter he'd read in the coffee bar not an hour before. _Sherlock has been here._

He ripped open the envelope. Two sheets of paper, the first of which was a copy of an invoice but the second had a scrawled note in a now familiar handwriting:

"I hate leaving things unfinished. So here is the evidence you need to track down McArthur's killers. He organised the subcontractor for the driveway and private roads around the building site, to a McHafferty Tarmacadam Services company, based in Liverpool. He was working a scam on his employers- invoicing with vat, and then paying ex-vat and pocketing the difference. Apparently the boys from the blackstuff realised it and demanded a cut. When he refused, they tarred him and chucked him in the river. The post mortum results show he was still alive when he went in- cause of death was drowning. So, maybe they just wanted to scare him and it went wrong? Took three days for the body to drift downstream and end up in St Katharine's Dock. Check out invoice racks in site office- especially binder F- you'll find the evidence there if you compare with McHafferty's versions. Sorry, this is a bit rushed, but I thought you would like to know. Consider this a little thank you case. SH"

_Oh, Sherlock –where are you?!_ Greg didn't want a solution to yet another case; he wanted to find Sherlock before he did something foolish. The DI had hoped this case would keep him going until he could catch up with him, and make sure he didn't deliver on the threat left between the lines of his letter to him. Now that the case was solved, he had absolutely no idea where Sherlock would go if he intended to do what the letter implied he was considering.

_THINK- how would Sherlock commit suicide?_ That didn't take much effort- even he knew that it would be most likely through a drug overdose- and injected cocaine was most likely.

But where? Where would he go to do it? Presumably, he was living rough at the moment, because he said that Mycroft was staking out his flat. He could be anywhere- an underpass beneath any busy London road, an out of the way place where homeless people gathered to spend their nights. London was full of abandoned buildings, tunnels, old houses which had not yet been touched by regeneration, but were considered fair game for squatters.

He was getting a stress headache. He wished he had a cigarette. It would calm him and help him to focus. He simply didn't have the resources to explore every possible place where Sherlock might have decided to end it all. Unfortunately, he knew a man who did- or at least could use the CCTV networks all over London to try to spot him. He hated the thought of ratting out Sherlock to his brother, but if the choice was a dead Sherlock or an angry one, he knew which one he preferred.

On the other hand, he had no idea how to contact Mycroft Holmes; only that he worked for a little known department that had official ties to the Cabinet Office, MI5, MI6 and GCHQ. Apart from ringing a switchboard at one of the other organisations, he had no idea how to reach him; it wasn't the sort of outfit to be listed in directory enquiries. He sighed, and took a deep breath.

He got on the phone to the office. "Donovan, send over two of the team to deal with a new case- James McArthur- that's the body that washed up in St Katharine's dock last Friday." He read out the address. "And I need the phone number of a man who is difficult to contact- Mycroft Holmes. Start at the Cabinet Office. Text me when you've got it."

He told the PC to stay put and brief the team when they showed up at the flat. He then went out to the car and told the Constable there to wait a moment. "I'm going across the road here to that newsagent because I desperately need a cigarette. I'll be back in a minute."

Rodney Road was a busy thoroughfare, so he walked down to the pedestrian crossing, and waited for the lights to change, then came back up the road to the newsagent. It was a typical south London corner shop, run by a smiling Asian middle-aged man. Greg asked for a pack of twenty Silk Cut cigarettes. The newsagent obliged and took his five pound note. As he rummaged in the till for change, he commented. "We don't get many customers asking for that brand; a bit posh for around here, if you know what I mean." Greg just looked up briefly and then went back to his thoughts about where Sherlock might have gone. As the man handed over the coins, he said cheerily. "Then, just like London buses, suddenly two in a single hour!"

Greg pocketed the coins and headed for the door. And then stopped. He turned around to ask the newsagent, "Could you please describe the other chap who bought them earlier?"

"Tall, dark hair, late teens or early twenties. Didn't say anything other than to ask for the brand; wanted the smallest pack- just five smokes."

Greg's eyes lit up. "Just how long ago?"

The newsagent thought about it. "Don't know, maybe a half hour?"

"OH, thank you!" and with that Greg dashed out to the pavement and looked across Rodney Road at the block of flats in which James McArthur had lived. It had a flat roof. Some hunch of Greg's breathed a "YES", and he tore off directly across the road and into the stair well. This time, he didn't stop at the top floor where Flat Number Six was, but carried on up to the roof.

When he came through the door, the area in front of him was empty. The view, however, was to the south, and rather mundane. He went around the corner of the doorway, and looked north, where the whole of the London skyline was visible- From Canary Wharf at the far right, all the way to Westminster's Houses of Parliament, with the City's skyscrapers and St Paul's Cathedral in between.

He tore his eyes off the view and looked back at the low wall around the block of flats' water tank. There sitting on the ground, with his legs stretched out in front of him, was Sherlock. His head was down on his chest, as if asleep, his arms lying lax beside him. Greg saw on the ground three cigarette ends, smoked right down to the filter, and then the two discarded syringes. _Oh, shit._

His phone was in his hand and dialling 999 before he even bent his knee to put a hand to Sherlock's neck, feeling for a pulse. There was one- but it worried Greg almost as much as if there hadn't been one, because it was going at a rate that was ridiculously fast. He shook Sherlock's shoulders and called out his name. Sherlock tried to push his hands away. His eyes were open but there was nothing but a vacant look in them.

Greg laid him out flat, as he barked "ambulance" in reply to the question "which service do you require?" and he was put through to the Emergency Control Room. "I'm a police officer- there's a person down with suspected lethal cocaine overdose; send an ambulance to 46 Rodney Road, SE17, the roof of Peabody Buildings Block E. Hurry!"

The control room call handler said briskly "stay on the line, and we will help you take any emergency first aid needed before the ambulance team arrives."

"I'm switching you onto speaker phone, so I can help him."

"Is he breathing?"

"Yes- too quickly; it's more like panting."

"Are his eyes open? Is he responsive to your voice?"

"Yes to the first, not really to the second"

"Check his pupils please."

"Dilated – incredibly, can hardly see any iris at all."

"What makes you think it was a lethal dose?"

"Suicide note and there are TWO empty syringes on the ground here."

"OK, we need to assume the worst. What's his temperature?"

Greg was confused. What difference did that make? Still, he felt Sherlock's forehead with his hand. It was burning up. "He's HOT, very hot- and sweaty, now that you mention it."

"Have you got any way to cool him down in a hurry? He's in danger of stroke, cardiac arrest or respiratory failure."

"I'm on a roof, but have access to the flat one flight down. Should I leave him to get ice or water or something?"

"Can you end this call, and use your phone to try to get a neighbour's help to come to you? Keep track of his pulse and breathing- DON'T leave him!"

He did just that, phoning through to the PC he'd left in Number Six, who came dashing up the stairs with a bottle of cold water and a tea towel full of ice. Lestrade soaked Sherlock's hoodie and T shirt, then held the tea towel on Sherlock's chest, while keeping his fingers against an artery, which was standing out against the pale flesh of his neck. By this time, he'd reconnected to the control room call handler.

A shudder ran through Sherlock's body, and then his muscles began to contract in jerks. "He's seizing!"

The calm voice of the dispatcher told him to make sure he didn't hurt himself; put him in the recovery position to keep his airway clear, use something to cushion his head, but don't restrain him. "The medics will want to know how long the seizure is, so check your watch. Don't panic; it looks worse than it is, unless it goes on for too long."

Greg could hear the sound of a siren in the distance. _Please be our ambulance and not someone else's. _ When it turned onto Rodney Road and came around the sharp bend. Sherlock's convulsion suddenly stopped and Greg sighed in relief, until he realised that Sherlock had almost stopped breathing. _Oh shit!_

His pulse was still going like an express train, as the ambulance crew made it up the stairs. They took over, slipping a mask with pressurised oxygen over Sherlock's mouth and nose. Greg stood back to let them measure vital signs. He told them what he had told the control room despatcher, and they slipped Sherlock onto a backboard to help lift him onto the collapsible trolley that had been brought up the stairs.

The ambulance left before Lestrade could get back into the police car, but they quickly followed it to St Thomas' A&E. On the way, his phone rang. Sally Donovan's number came up on caller ID, so he took it. "What?"

If she was taken aback by his abruptness, Sally didn't comment, because she could hear the police car's siren over the phone. "I got that number you wanted- like pulling teeth, but I'm texting it through to you now."

"Right. Thanks" and he cut off. The number came through about 20 seconds later. He hit dial and waited for it to ring. On the third ring, a female voice answered. "Hello, how may I help you?"

"I need to speak to Mycroft Holmes immediately. This is Detective Inspector Lestrade."

There was a very brief silence. "And what is the purpose of your call?"

Lestrade was in no mood for delay or politeness. "You can tell him to meet me at St Thomas's Emergency Department. His brother is dying from a cocaine overdose." He hung up. He'd done his duty to Mycroft; now he focused his thoughts on Sherlock.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen- 2003 Cold Turkey Cases Part Eight**

* * *

Greg would remember that night for the rest of his life. He'd seen the inside of too many hospitals in his time- taking statements from victims, keeping an eye on wounded suspects, checking up on the injuries to his team members, even being treated himself. It came with the job, and Greg Lestrade was a professional. Homicides that aren't successful usually end up with someone in a hospital bed; the alternative is the morgue, and that is also usually found in a hospital. So, in his book, hospitals weren't always bad news; in fact, if they didn't involve a morgue, often they were good news.

But, his friends and family were remarkably healthy, so he was rarely in a hospital as a visitor in a private capacity. While he paced the waiting area of St Thomas's Emergency Department, he realised that's what he was. While Sherlock no doubt wanted to think of their relationship as 'professional', Greg had come to realise that he cared on a personal level for the fate of the young man.

Their paths had crossed often enough for Lestrade to realise that Mycroft's accusations were baseless. Yes, Sherlock's special gifts had helped Greg significantly in his career. But, at some point along the way of watching Sherlock work this past weekend, Greg realised that he cared about the young man himself, and did want to help him survive the maelstrom of what that amazing brain could do. As a detective, Greg Lestrade depended on his ability to put facts together with conjecture, to develop potential leads into prosecutable evidence. But like a run-of-the-mill artist who had suddenly been confronted by a Leonardo da Vinci, he was thunderstruck by the sheer artistry of Sherlock's forensic insight. The past weekend, he had watched a genius at work, and he would never, ever, forget it.

Somehow, over the weekend Sherlock had become important to Greg. In part, because he'd seen how Sherlock's work on cases meant he was able to unleash his skills in a way that did social good (he could hear Sherlock's reply in his head- "boring"). Although Sherlock would probably struggle to understand that, Greg knew that it just might be the young man's salvation. Having watched his nephew Sam struggle to find anything resembling respect from the people around him, Greg saw something wonderful in what Sherlock was able to do. He wasn't sure other people would get it; clearly his brother did not appreciate it. Sherlock's talent was unique, and it was awesome. And right now all that brilliance had turned self-destructive. That made him very, very angry.

He was trying to understand why that mattered as much as it did to him. He sat in one of those horrible plastic hospital seats. His elbows were on his knees, and he was looking down at the tiled floor, thinking this through, when he heard the sound of someone striding down the hall toward him. _Not medical personnel; they don't wear leather soled shoes._

Greg looked up at the sound of Mycroft Holmes. The elder Holmes' face was set, his jaw tense, and his eyes seemed to go even colder when he caught sight of the DI.

He stopped in front of Greg, who decided not to get up; he wasn't going to be intimidated by Mycroft's looming figure. He calmly waited.

"This is what I meant, Detective Inspector. Exactly what I meant. Being involved in your little…cases," the word was delivered with every possible sneer he could muster, "…is not sensible, given how susceptible my brother is to drug abuse. I warned you to stay away from Sherlock, and to ensure he was not involved in any police work. You have chosen to ignore that, and now my brother may not survive an overdose. There will be consequences."

Greg was gobsmacked. Mycroft was clearly _blaming him_ for what had happened.

That made him angry enough to propel him to his feet. Now inside Mycroft's physical space, he just said coldly, "_If_ he survives, it will be because I understood what he was intending and I found him in time. With all your _surveillance_, where were you when he really needed you? I figured out where he was, and got there while he was still alive. If it weren't for me, Sherlock would now be dead. Ask the medical staff here, if you don't believe me. If you don't believe them, take a look at this." He reached into his jacket pocket, and withdrew Sherlock's letter. He pulled off the yellow sticky with the solicitor's phone number on it, and handed the letter to Mycroft, who stepped away and scanned its lines.

"My brother is trying to protect you- how …quaint. If he does not survive, I will take appropriate action, Detective Inspector, no matter what this letter says." He handed it back to the DI.

Greg bristled at the tone of voice. "Then you will push me to find out about this file that your brother thinks is enough to stop you." He paused for a moment, trying to stop his anger taking hold. "But, you know, for his sake, right now, I think it would be best if we could both be on his side. If he survives. And you might want to stop and think about something. While you may believe that the murder cases were trivial, they weren't to him. He delayed taking action so he could finish his investigation into the latest one. I hoped it would keep him busy enough to give me a chance to catch up with him, to talk him out of anything stupid, to tell him that whatever argument he has with you, it isn't a reason to kill himself. If he survives, then it is up to you to realise what might keep him alive longer term. I have no doubt that his sanity will depend on you being willing to think past your prejudices. You need to realise that solving cases is what he lives for."

Mycroft frowned. "You'd better hope he lives, Detective Inspector. If he doesn't, then there is no force on earth that will protect you." With that, he turned away and carried on to the nursing station. He said a few words and one scurried off, perhaps looking for a doctor.

oOo

Greg went back down the corridor to the Emergency Department's admission desk where he made use of his police credentials to get the nurse to make a copy of the case notes that Sherlock had enclosed with his letter. "Make sure he gets a copy of this," he told the nurse to whom Mycroft had spoken. Greg had few illusions. If Mycroft Holmes decided to go for him, then it was highly unlikely his career would ever be the same, even if he managed to stay within the force. He wondered whether Mycroft Holmes would even bother to read the detailed note, but he still felt obliged to show it to him, if only to demonstrate just how good Sherlock was at solving crimes.

He asked at the desk whether any news had come through on Sherlock's condition.

"I'm only supposed to release that information to family members, sir."

He flashed his warrant card at her. "I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade, and that young man is instrumental in a murder investigation, so, sorry- but you will have to answer my questions. If you don't know how he is, then find me a doctor who does. I've been here over an hour, and my patience is wearing thin."

She gave him an annoyed look. "What is with you lot? His brother acts like he's God's gift to mankind, and now you're pulling rank on me. I'll get Doctor Suresh to come speak to you as soon as he can."

That turned out to be almost a half hour later. A shockingly young looking doctor came down the corridor and stopped in front of Greg. _They say you know you're getting old when doctors look like they are still in school._ He tuned into what this one was saying. "You're the policeman who brought him in, aren't you? Well, thanks to you, he made it out of the resus room. Cocaine overdose is difficult to diagnose unless someone knows they were trying to take their own life. According to the ambulance crew who brought him in, you said he'd had two hits of cocaine already, and we found a third syringe in his coat pocket."

Greg looked confused. "_Three?_ Why not just one massive dose in one syringe?"

The doctor shook his head. "It's called 'piggy backing'. You take the first hit to enjoy yourself and loosen inhibitions, then before you come down you take the second, and just before that starts to tail off, you take the third. The cumulative effect is certain to lead to a massive MI or cerebral haemorrhage. So, you must have interrupted him before he could take the third dose. Were you also responsible for getting his clothing wet?"

"Yeah- the despatcher said to cool him down. I used a bottle of cold water and ice."

The Junior Doctor smiled. "Then, you should be pleased, because that is probably what saved his life. Cocaine overdoses don't present like opiate ODs; cause of death is usually a stroke or massive heart attack due to an inability to shed heat. We got him into an ice bath to bring his temperature down and dosed him with diazepam to sedate him. That slowed things up enough for us to get his heart rhythm back to normal. He'll pull through."

Greg let his smile loose. "Good, that's very good."

Dr Suresh smiled, too, if a little more hesitantly.

Greg carried on, "Just tell his brother, will you, that if I hadn't brought him in on time, and done the right thing, he might not have made it. Can you do that for me?"

"Already have. Of course, the patient still has to get through withdrawal, and Rehab. Maybe, if he can get clean, this won't happen a third time."

"A _THIRD _time!? You mean he's done this before?"

"Yes, according to Mr Holmes, this is the second attempt. Last time was three years ago. The patient had been out of rehab for a couple of months. Seems a pattern. I hope therapy can get to the bottom of it. I'm sorry to say that it is a fact that adult autistics have a higher rate of drug addiction and suicide than the normal population. It's a shame, it really is….well, I must get back, so unless there is anything else, Detective Inspector?"

"Can I see him, please? I need to speak with him."

Dr Suresh just shook his head. "That's not going to happen. His brother intends moving him to a private clinic, just as soon as we extubate him, but he will still be unconscious. If you want to see him, you'll need to arrange it with Mr Holmes. Now, I must really get back to him."

He knew better than to even try to ask Mycroft. He left the hospital feeling relieved that Sherlock was alive. But Greg was deeply worried, too, about a young man whom he now realised he thought of as a friend.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen- Interregnum 2004 Part One**

* * *

Over the next nine weeks, Lestrade heard nothing from or about Sherlock. The silence was ominous. Christmas and the New Year came and went. It was a busy time for the Homicide and Serious Crime Division of the Met. Unfortunately, the holiday season seemed to bring out the worst in people- crimes of passion and crimes against property that tipped over into life-threatening harm. Fuelled by alcohol and greed, criminals seemed to think of this time of year as their very own special occasion.

In the meantime, between hot cases, his teams cleared up nine of the twelve cold cases that Sherlock had resurrected from the files. Apart from the suicide and the accidental death cases, one had to be closed due to insufficient evidence- both suspects identified by Sherlock as the likely perpetrators had died since the crime was committed- one in prison for another offence, the other felled by a massive heart attack. Greg felt a dim sense of justice being done in both cases; at least neither had managed to live for that long after their victim. The other cases proceeded to court and were well on their way to securing convictions. So, almost every day, the DI was reminded of the brilliance of Sherlock and that amazing Sunday they'd spent together.

He often wondered what was happening to the young man. Presumably, his brother forced him into Rehab. Perhaps, when he got out, Sherlock would try to re-establish contact, in defiance of his brother's wishes. Greg hoped so.

Today, the young man was even more in Greg's mind than usual. Detective Chief Superintendent Jackson MacDonald was now in the duty room speaking to Lestrade's team, and to the members of the Forensics teams that had been assigned to work on the cold cases.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, I'm here to congratulate your people for outstanding work in clearing these twelve cold cases. Out of the Met's 24 Murder Investigation Teams, yours stands out as a role model, and I want to take this opportunity to note that your work has helped the Force deliver its pledge to tackle serious offenders blighting Londoners' lives. I know from personal experience how frustrating it can be when cases go cold; nothing distresses the victims, their families and the community at large more than when their police force is seen to be letting them down by not bringing the guilty parties to justice. Your initiative in not letting sleeping cases lie is commendable. Due to your leadership, justice is now seen to be done in cases that were once thought to be beyond solving. So, on behalf of the Deputy Assistant Commissioner and myself, please accept our formal congratulations on a job well done. We will be issuing a press release to this effect for tomorrow's papers."

He clasped Greg's hand in a firm shake, and smiled for the police photographer, who caught the moment for posterity.

"I can't accept the credit, Chief Superintendent. I had help in spotting new lines of enquiry and the team did the work to make it all happen."

"Of course, of course, Lestrade; it's generous of you to share the kudos. Still, it takes a certain style of leadership to bring out the best in your team and others in the force. So, no false modesty, please." He beamed and Lestrade gave an embarrassed smile.

Later that afternoon, Greg could not shake his awkward feeling- Sherlock should have had the credit. Not that the young man would have cared. Lestrade could almost hear him dismiss the whole thing as "tedious". What mattered to him was solving the crime through deduction. And, Greg couldn't tell anyone just what a role Sherlock had in the whole business. Inevitably, once they knew a civilian had helped, his superiors would want to know more. And that would lead to an addict in rehabilitation- where publicity would not be in the young man's best interests. So, he felt torn. Greg did feel, however, that his brother Mycroft should know that what he had casually dismissed as mere "puzzles" in fact had been important to the victims' families, friends and their local communities. And, he should be told before it went into tomorrow's papers.

He decided to phone the number that was still in his text history. After three rings, the same female voice answered. "Detective Inspector Lestrade, how may I help you?"

"I'd like to speak to Mycroft Holmes, please."

"That isn't possible at the moment. However, it might be possible to arrange it for later. I will get back to you shortly." Then the line went dead, leaving Lestrade glaring at his mobile.

True to form, the elder Holmes called back at the most inconvenient time- in the middle of a dinner out with Louise and her best friends, a husband and wife team from her work. She'd invited them to a local restaurant that Greg didn't particularly like- it was expensive and posh, but the food had always disappointed him. _Better to look at than to eat_ was his verdict. The same could be said of the company. While he respected Louise's work in public relations, he found he had little in common with the overly made-up blonde and her husband, who was all in black and sporting the inevitable three day old stubble. The three were full of work-related gossip and the conversation steered into areas of social media and search engine optimisation that left Lestrade wondering what on earth they were talking about.

When his mobile started vibrating in his pocket, he pulled it out, saw the number and excused himself. His wife just rolled her eyes and shooed him away. "Police work, no doubt," she drawled to the pair. Greg went into the restaurant foyer, which was now quiet, given every table in the place was already full.

"Lestrade here."

"You rang." Mycroft kept his tone neutral and bland.

"Yes, I did. A heads up- I wanted you to know that the Met is publishing something for tomorrow's papers about the dozen cold cases that Sherlock solved on that Sunday he spent with me. You might understand a bit better the good he did then."

There was no reply. Greg decided to plough on. "How is he? I would much rather be saying this to him than to you, but I have no idea where he is. His phone has been disconnected. Is there any chance I could see or speak to him?"

There was a sigh at the other end. "Detective Inspector, I am assuming that you were intelligent enough not to mention Sherlock's role either to your superiors or to the press? Can I assume that you have shown no one that note describing his activities with you?"

Greg gritted his teeth. "Of course not. Whatever you think of me, Mr Holmes, I assure you that I have Sherlock's best interests at heart. Will you tell me where he is?"

The silence lengthened.

"I am serious, Mr Holmes, I would like to visit and to speak with him."

"That is not likely. My brother has not spoken a word since he recovered consciousness following his overdose. I have no reason to believe that he would appreciate a visit from you. He hardly acknowledges the presence of anyone now."

Greg swallowed. "Was there some sort of. ..brain damage then?" He tried to keep the horror out of his voice.

A cold tone replied. "No, nothing is physically wrong with him. He just chooses to be… uncommunicative and uncooperative."

Greg decided to risk offending the man. "Perhaps it's more a matter of _who_ is trying to communicate with him. Maybe if it was somebody of his own choice, it would make a difference. Ask him, Mr Holmes, whether he would be prepared to see me. Will you do that?"

"I am not sure the medical team would agree with you, Detective Inspector."

"You won't know until you ask them, will you? And no matter what they say, you won't get a real answer unless you are brave enough to ask your brother whether he wants to see me."

"I will consider what you have said, Detective Inspector. Good night." And with that, the line went dead. Once again, Greg was left glaring at his phone.

oOo

Two days later, Greg was heading home after a long day at New Scotland Yard. He'd been ribbed enough by the other MIT detectives; most of it was good natured about his ambitions. Only a few seemed envious enough to accuse him of trying to show them up. It was a fine line to walk. Greg didn't want to be accused of being a 'brown-noser', sucking up to the bosses. On the other hand, when Sherlock handed him the leads, he wanted to do justice to that gift.

He was only twenty feet out of the exit to Seven Sisters tube station when he spotted the black car pacing behind him. When he glanced back, his sense of déjà vu activated. Was it stalking him the way that the car had followed Sherlock down Victoria Street? When he stopped, the passenger side front door opened, and the agent that he remembered from that occasion emerged. "You're presence is requested."

The drive took them out of London to the northwest. Neither the driver nor the agent who got in the front passenger seat spoke to Greg during the journey. He dragged his mobile out and called Louise. There was no reply. _Probably on her way home by now_. So he texted her to say he'd been detained, and didn't know when he would be getting home apart from that it would be late.

After forty minutes, the car left the motorway and began travelling down dark unlit country roads, then made a right turn onto a single track driveway that ended at a set of impressive metal gates. There was a CCTV camera which swivelled to scan the driver and passengers, before the gates glided open. Five minutes later, they got out of the car in front of a modern low rise building. The two agents escorted Greg into a well-appointed reception area. A private clinic, he guessed, from the medical professional who greeted them at the desk.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade for Doctor Cohen," announced the agent.

He was taken upstairs and shown into an office. A moment later, the door opened and a petite woman in a white lab coat over a navy suit entered. Her short grey hair framed an open face that smiled a welcome. "Detective Inspector Lestrade, I'm Esther Cohen. I'm Sherlock's doctor here. I am so glad you could make it this evening."

He gave a rueful grin. "I wasn't given much choice."

Her smile faltered. "Oh dear, Mycroft hasn't been up to his usual tactics, has he? I was led to believe that you requested the chance to see Sherlock. Oh, I do hope this isn't under duress?"

"No, of course not. I asked to see Sherlock. I'm worried about him- have been for the past nine weeks."

She looked relieved. "Please sit down. It must have been a long day for you at work, and this is keeping you from your home. Can I offer you some tea, coffee or water?"

He thought about it; a coffee would help fight off the fatigue a while. And he was strangely nervous. "A black coffee, no sugar; that would be great, thank you." She made a call, and asked for two coffees to be brought in.

"Is it safe to say that Mycroft Holmes didn't tell you much about Sherlock's condition?"

"Only that his brother hasn't said a word since the overdose. That worries me."

The coffees arrived. As she poured some milk into hers and stirred it with a teaspoon, she replied "It worries me, too, Detective Inspector. I've been trying to treat Sherlock since he was twelve years old, and he has never been so far…out of reach before. In the past, he's been angry and rebellious about being in rehab, arguing with therapists, resisting loudly any kind of serious engagement. Now, he is just silent."

Greg took a sip of the scalding liquid and felt its warmth burn its way down into his stomach.

Esther Cohen continued, "Until this morning, that is. Mycroft arrived and went into see Sherlock. He hasn't visited much, because Sherlock generally reacts badly to his presence. This time, he told Sherlock about your telephone call, and asked if Sherlock would be willing to see you. After nine weeks of not saying a single word, Sherlock just replied as if there had been no gap at all- Yes, he'd be very pleased to see you and to know more about how the cases had turned out, the twelve cold cases and the one involving James MacArthur."

"I am not sure whether Mycroft or I was more shocked at the reply. So, here you are."

Greg looked at her and smiled. "I'm glad, really glad."

"There are things you need to know about Sherlock. According to Mycroft, you are aware of Sherlock's autism and SPD. What you will not know is that the last nine weeks, he has been unwilling to moderate the characteristic behaviours associated with both. He's gone back to sitting in corners, rocking, stimming, all the stereotypical behaviours. He won't eat properly and he won't take his drugs orally. Everything now is via IV. He's made no eye contact at all since he got here. That's a shock to me, and to his brother. He learned a long time ago how to behave in a way that passes for 'normal' in society. Mycroft thinks he is doing it on purpose- a sort of rebellion. I think it is more symptomatic of his despair- a sort of 'if you won't let me out, I see no reason to behave' kind of depression.

Her face showed genuine sadness, rather than the usual bland neutrality that Greg associated with medical professionals. She continued, "You're not a doctor, but with your help we need to be able to take advantage of this breakthrough in communication to get him engaged with his recovery programme. So, I am afraid, Detective Inspector, that there are things we need you to discuss with him. Things he needs to do, if he is going to get well enough to be released. Whatever else you may say to him, those things matter the most. Do you understand what I am saying?"

Greg looked troubled at her words. "I won't do or say anything that I don't agree is in his best interests. But, if by his stay here he gets clean and stays that way when he is released, then I think that is something I am happy to help with. I guess, though, I value what _he_ has to say about his recovery, more probably than his brother does."

She examined him carefully, and then a little smile formed. "Oh, I am pleased. You _like_ Sherlock. Mycroft said he thought you might be using Sherlock to further your career. But, I'm not getting that from you at all. Mycroft is usually an excellent judge of character. Maybe, because it's his brother, that has blinded him a bit. That said, no one beats Sherlock at being able to read people- and he obviously trusts you, if he is willing to see you when he has ignored everyone else. Sherlock generally thinks everyone is an idiot, but he clearly wants to talk to you, and by the sound of it, to work with you. I've seen that list of cases, by the way. Mycroft showed it to me."

Lestrade looked suitably impressed. "Have you tried to convince Mycroft Holmes that case work is something worthwhile for his brother to do? Or is he still blaming me for leading Sherlock into temptation?"

She tilted her head and replied with a supressed smile. "Mycroft Holmes is not immovable. He will change his mind in the light of new information. He wouldn't last long in his job if he didn't. To hear his report, the medical team at St Thomas' Emergency Department credit you with saving his brother's life. Which, by the way, is probably why he took your call, and why you are here. If you really want to save Sherlock's life, then you'll get in there and convince him to do what is needed to get out of here- to start talking, and start co-operating. Without that, Mycroft won't change his mind."

Greg returned the smile. "They are both stubborn; must make it hell to have to intermediate."

"That's where you've been helpful, Detective Inspector. You've already had a beneficial effect on Sherlock, and I am not just talking about getting him talking again. He ate a breakfast and lunch today, when I showed him that his low blood sugar levels would mean that he'd probably faint when he got up to see you. I got him to do that because he insisted on meeting you in this office. And for the first time in nine weeks, he got himself out of bed and dressed. I don't think he wants you to see him as being ill. Sherlock raises his game for you. Mycroft will have noticed that fact. And Sherlock will have to continue doing so, if he wants to get out of here."

Lestrade considered her words. "So, leaving here isn't up to Sherlock?"

She raised her eyebrows at the question. "No, he's been sectioned under the Mental Health Act because of his suicide attempt. Unless he can convince us that he is no longer a threat to himself, he's here for as long as it takes."

That sobered Greg's mood. "Something I was told at the hospital- this wasn't his first attempt. What happened previously?"

Esther folded her hands in front of her. "You might ask Sherlock that same question. He's never answered me when I've asked it. And he has not spoken about this latest attempt either, so your guess is as good as mine, perhaps even better, as you were with him in the days running up to it. So, I will turn the question around- why do you think he did it?"

Greg thought about that. It wouldn't be betraying any confidences; after all, Sherlock had put it in a letter that he assumed would be used in public. "He said in his letter to me that it was to do with his brother not allowing him any freedom to do what he wanted to do- which, by the way, is to work on cases like the ones he had considered the weekend he stayed with me."

"Could it really be that simple?" she seemed puzzled.

"Yeah, maybe it is that simple. Maybe it's time to listen to what he has to say and let him do it. If that's what it takes to keep him off the streets and free of drugs, then I'd say that's a successful therapy. I know his brother is sniffy about this work, but, well, you know what I'm going to say. It's my life; I do it because it's something that needs to be done, for the good of society. I'm not the world's greatest detective, Doctor Cohen, but that young man just might be, if anyone apart from me will give him a chance to prove it."


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter Eighteen- Interregnum 2004 Part Two**

* * *

"Took you long enough." There was a hint of reproach in that tone that made Greg smile.

"Yeah, well, your brother can be a scary son of a bitch. I had to have a reason to speak to him- and the Met's press release was the excuse I needed." He tossed the newspaper to Sherlock, who caught it.

"Page four."

He watched as Sherlock sat down and opened the paper with avid interest. He scanned the article in seconds, and then sniffed. "Not enough detail. The press are useless- just go for the sensational stuff." He rolled his eyes in disgust. "Lestrade, I want chapter and verse on every one of those cases, included McArthur's."

Greg saw past the bravado and recognised how thin the young man was. Those cheekbones were even more pronounced now than the last time he saw him. There was both fragility and fervent intensity to his gaze. Then he remembered that Doctor Cohen had said Sherlock had not made eye contact since he'd arrived at the clinic. Well, Sherlock was looking straight at him now, with expectation.

So, Greg started to tell him exactly what had happened on each of the cases. The young man occasionally interrupted to ask a question or probe more deeply some aspect. The fourth case, involving the death of an old lawyer which had been originally thought to be a hate crime, had proved particularly challenging. Sherlock was dismissive of the murder team's re-investigation.

"For God's sake, Lestrade, you really need to find a better team. I gave you the biggest lead ever- look for a serrated knife in the younger son's attic. What more did you need?"

Greg just smiled gently. "We aren't all gifted with your deductive capacities, Sherlock. Be a little more tolerant of normal mortals." He decided to take the chance to steer the conversation in the direction it needed to go. "Of course, if you hadn't done something stupid, you'd have been there alongside us to tell us where we were going wrong."

That wiped the smirk off of Sherlock's face. "Well, that was then; this is now, do carry on with the other cases."

Lestrade wouldn't be deflected. "Nope. Not until you tell me what was going on. Last time I saw you, it was on a Walworth rooftop after you solved the McArthur case. Trouble was, you'd done something so stupid that you didn't even have time to solve the case properly."

That earned him a glare. "What do you mean? What did I get wrong?"

"McArthur was involved in the VAT scam; you were right about that. But you were in such a rush that you didn't chase down the other partner- the site manager was in it up to his eyes, too. That took us quite a while to figure out, because we didn't have your genius on the team. So, next time you contemplate that little exit plan, do me a favour and give me a call first? Could have saved us all a lot of time and hassle. And, who knows? If you'd done the smart thing, you might have avoided this place, too."

Sherlock had the grace to look a little sheepish at first, then rather pensive. He sighed. "You forget; I had a fraternal veto to deal with".

"Stuff Mycroft." That made Sherlock look up and smirk. Greg carried on. "Don't use your brother as an excuse. The only person putting you in here is you. Same goes for keeping you in here. If you want out, you know the drill. It's not like you aren't smart enough to figure it out." He was playing this as coolly as he could. He just hoped it was the right tone to take.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed a bit, as if he was considering whether Greg was having him on. "Carry on, Lestrade- there are five more cases to tell me about."

Greg just leant back in his chair and crossed his arms. "Why does it matter so much to know what happened?"

"Because my brain is rotting in here, and you are giving me the first chance in nine weeks to actually use it."

"What would it mean if I could get you more?"

Sherlock looked a little suspicious. "More…what? Cases? You can't be serious- Mycroft would refuse permission." He gestured at the office. "This may look all nice and cosy, but I can assure you that my hospital room has electronic locks on it and they won't even let me have access to the internet here. And, of course, there is a daily diet of useless drugs that do nothing but slow me up and make it impossible to concentrate on anything meaningful."

Greg considered this last point. "Doesn't seem to be bothering you at the moment."

This drew another smirk in reply. "That's because last night I convinced them to stop the IV, and then fooled them this morning into thinking I had taken the tablets. I don't need the drugs when I've got brain work."

"What, not even the cocaine?"

"No, I'm not an addict. I can stop anytime."

"Then why haven't you?"

"Because I haven't had a reason worth stopping for."

"Is that why you talked yourself into the overdose?"

"I decided I no longer wanted to be me, isn't that sufficient cause?"

"No, you have to explain it. I'm not a mind reader, because this isn't the first time, so I've been told. If I am going to involve you in my cases, I need to know the worst, Sherlock. It's only fair. You're able to deduce everything about me, so give up something about you, if you expect me to trust you."

That got him another glare. "Being handed the solutions to your cases on a silver platter isn't good enough?"

Greg just glared back. "No, actually, it isn't. It's highly unusual to bring a civilian into case work, so I need to know I can trust you, otherwise the deal is off."

"What deal?"

"Just answer the bloody question, Sherlock and I might bother to tell you."

Sherlock looked away, and gave a little sigh. "You have no idea, Lestrade, what it's like to be me. I can tell you how many cracks there are in the ceiling of my room here, catagorised by length and estimated date of origin. I can tell you who is walking down the corridor to visit another patient, and whether they are carrying anything- it affects their pace, which changes the sound. I'm so bored I play games trying to guess what they are carrying- is it a plant, newspapers or magazines? or something heavier? The third ceiling light from the nurses' station will need replacing in about three days; its buzz is noticeably different from the other florescent tubes along the corridor. The patient four doors down on the right suffers from night terrors, which annoys the night team, who've been known to drug him to shut him up. I can tell you that the nurse who changes the IV every morning is frustrated that her husband is cheating on her, but she doesn't realise that it is because his mistress is pregnant with a child, the child she can't have.

"Shall I go on? I can tell you that your wife is still irritating you about your smoking; she's probably now complaining that your clothes smell of cigarette smoke, and she's moved her entire wardrobe to another closet, hasn't she? And she's stopped ironing your shirts, too, so she's been promoted and making enough money in PR to send your shirts out to be laundered and pressed."

Greg just huffed and said "get to the point, Sherlock."

"But that _is_ the point! I can't turn this off- there is never any relief. The data just pours in, and it's totally useless. It makes me anxious and I can't think straight, because there is nothing to be _done_ with it all. There is just no point to it. I told you before, cases are different, they allow me to focus, to actually use my brain, instead of hating what all this data is doing to me. So, when you hand me twelve cold cases, I finally see some light at the end of the tunnel, but, hold on, because here comes Mycroft to lock me up and say I will never, ever get a chance to really use my brain for the only thing that it is good at doing. No wonder I get depressed- there's no reason to _want_ to carry on."

"Would working on cases be a reason?"

"Yes, of course."

Greg leaned forward, his hands on his knees. "Then prove it, Sherlock."

Sherlock broke eye contact and sighed. He raised both hands in surrender and said quietly, "We both know it isn't going to happen. Mycroft won't let me. He will keep me in here until my brain actually does rot away. You have no idea what the last nine weeks has been like."

"Sherlock, as you like to say, that was then, this is now. If I were able to convince Mycroft to let you have some cold cases in here, and you really applied yourself to ...whatever the hell it is that they want you to do in here in terms of therapy, would you stick to it? Would you?"

Sherlock looked puzzled. "You're trying to… negotiate with me?"

"Yeah, I figure this is a little like a hostage situation. I'm going have to negotiate the terms of your release with your brother. It won't be easy. But first I have to know whether you can actually deliver your side of the bargain."

"Why would you do that? Why would it matter to you?"

"Because all this…you like this…it's such a bloody waste. It pisses me off that you would be so stupid as to destroy any chance of doing what you are obviously good at doing. And, I was angry about what I found on the rooftop of Peabody Buildings. I'm still angry with you. _Don't ever do that again. _ Not while you're working with me. Not on my watch, Sherlock. I mean it. You do what you have to in order to get out; you'll start clean, you'll stay clean and then I will involve you in cases that are worth that brain of yours. But, break the rules, and it's game over."

Sherlock sat, his face impassive for a moment, then he frowned. "You won't be able to convince Mycroft." He shook his head, resigned.

"You just leave that to me. Provided you are willing to actually deliver, then I'll do my part." He waited as Sherlock thought it over. Greg carried on, he wanted no misunderstanding. "You have to want this, _really_ want it- more than anything else, Sherlock. If you don't, then let's just call it quits, and I'll leave you to the kind ministrations of the staff in this place."

Sherlock glared at the DI, who carried on, "don't think of this as a 'get out of jail free' card; it's going to cost you. You'll have to clean up your act, rent a flat, eat and sleep properly, behave yourself so you don't get evicted again. No joke. But, if you want the case work enough, I think you'll do it."

The young man leant forward, looked Greg straight in the eye, and said quietly. "Yes, I will."

Greg smiled.

Sherlock then asked, "do you _really_ think you can convince him?" He didn't sound optimistic.

"I'll give it my best shot."

Then Sherlock sat back in his chair and crossed his arms, fixing Lestrade with a hint of a smile. "Can I be a fly on the wall when you meet with Mycroft?"

"No- piss off. That's between me and him."


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter Nineteen- Interregnum 2004 Part Three**

* * *

Greg balanced the two cups of take-out coffee in one hand as he fished out his ID to swipe in through New Scotland Yard's security gates at reception. He'd got home late last night; Louise was already asleep and he tried not to wake her. He left before she was up- police had an earlier start than PR, so he routinely was up and out even before she got out of bed.

As he walked down the corridor to his office, he considered the previous night's events. He wondered how long it would take for his discussion with Sherlock to get back to his brother, and what would be relayed about it. He hoped that Sherlock would wake up this morning without regrets about his agreement. If he could show that he was willing to respond to Doctor Cohen and the other staff at the clinic, then just maybe Lestrade could help him get better. But, he still had to convince Mycroft Holmes.

As he opened the office door, he realised that it was already occupied. He smirked. "Good morning, Mr Holmes. I hope you didn't accept anyone's offer of coffee – the Yard's machine stuff is ghastly. I went to the trouble of getting you one when I got mine."

As he came around his desk to face Mycroft, he put down the two coffees. "You have your choice between black and no sugar, or one with milk. My guess is that you would prefer sugar but are trying to do without."

"Detective Inspector, how very kind." The elder Holmes was observing Greg. "You'd prefer the black coffee, I am sure."

Mycroft removed the plastic cap from the coffee with milk and brought it closer, for an exploratory sniff. "Kenyan Peaberry coffee. So, you frequent the Mozzo coffee bar on Tothill Street."

"I'm not even going to ask how you know; my guess is that Sherlock isn't the only one in your family who sees things that most people miss."

Greg settled himself in his chair and had a pull at his own coffee, but his eyes did not leave the face of the immaculately dressed younger man in the chair opposite. He waited. He needed to know what tack Mycroft was going to take, before deciding how to press Sherlock's case.

"Oh, I have help, Detective Inspector. For obvious reasons, you have been under surveillance for some time. It is only sensible to collect data before this discussion, which I hope you will admit is a rather civilised approach to a…hostage negotiation. A remarkable use of the phrase, I must admit."

Greg had guessed that it was likely his conversation with Sherlock last night would be monitored. Whilst he expected Doctor Cohen would be listening in, he wasn't sure if Mycroft would.

"At least, it got his attention."

"Oh, and it got mine, as well, I can assure you. It does raise an interesting question. You have denied that your interest in Sherlock is due to your wish to further your career. But, it is not clear what your motivations really are. So, before I can even begin a discussion with you, I need to know that."

"You heard what I said to Sherlock- I hate the waste."

"What you told him and what the truth is could be very different. There are many reasons why a man of your age could be...interested… in someone like Sherlock." He left it unsaid, but Lestrade suddenly picked up on the undercurrent.

He stifled a snort. "Relax, Mr Holmes, I am a happily married man, and not inclined that way, if you are implying what I think you are implying. I meant what I said. I hate the waste of talent. Maybe I take it personally, too. I don't want to see my nephew Sam end up on the roof of a building thinking about suicide, the way Sherlock has. And there are professional reasons, too. I don't expect you to get it, but I do love my job. I am reasonably good at it. I think it is a "good thing", something worthwhile. But I suppose like any ordinary journeyman, when I meet a master, it makes me sit up and take notice. Your brother is brilliant, an absolute genius, and I respect that. What he likes doing with that genius is solving cases, and he does it better than anyone I know or will ever know. So, yeah, when that goes off the rails, I get pissed off about it."

Greg took another pull of coffee, hoping the caffeine would kick in and sharpen his thinking. "As annoyed as I am that Sherlock would do something as stupid as drugs, and even more irritated that he would try to kill himself, I am also worried that _you_ don't seem able to stop him from doing those things. So, forgive me, Mr Holmes, but I am going to stick my neck out and see if I can help."

Mycroft was watching him, carefully, but giving nothing away. Greg realised that he was in the presence of someone who did this as a living- negotiation and political manoeuvring. The man might be a decade younger than Greg, but he wore his responsibilities, rank and privilege as easily as his three piece suit . The DI decided he had no choice but to press on.

"So, just what have you got against Sherlock working on cases? You once implied that you thought it led him to temptation. But, he did drugs long before he did case work. And, if Doctor Cohen is to be believed, he tried to take his own life before when rehab didn't work- again, before he got involved in what you so patronisingly dismissed as 'puzzles'. So, what's the real worry?"

"My brother does not understand personal risk, Detective Inspector. He will put himself in harm's way repeatedly in an attempt to prove how clever he is. The adrenaline of solving crimes is something he enjoys, with little regard to his own well-being. He will not be content with desk work. That attitude is likely to get him killed. He's already proven that with that banker business."

"Pursuing criminals must be preferable to chasing his next hit, wouldn't you say? Forget about the social benefits, as I am sure Sherlock would; it's a damn sight safer than being high and living on the streets, not to mention getting so annoyed with you that he tries to top himself."

"Not doing anything of the sort would be safer still." There was a look of steel in those eyes now.

Lestrade was running out of arguments.

Mycroft steepled his hands under his chin and contemplated the DI. "My brother could've been a Noble Prize winning chemist, if he wanted to be. He could also have been a professional classical violinist. He has the talent to be almost anything he wanted to be. But, you're telling me he wants to be a private detective."

"Yeah, I am. You heard it last night. He wants this. Enough to do whatever is necessary. Has he ever shown that degree of commitment to _anything_ before? Could it be that you are just being a …snob about this? By stopping him you've backed him so far into a corner that the only way out is to kill himself. Geez, what other proof do you need to know that he really wants to do this?"

Mycroft did not answer. Greg felt frustrated. He was sure that the elder Holmes would have considered all these things. Clearly, he was intelligent; one didn't get to his position at his age without being shockingly bright. So, Greg couldn't figure it out. He took another sip from his now tepid coffee. And then the truth came to him, in a flash.

"You've already offered him case work, haven't you? Just with your service, backroom stuff, a desk job as a kind of analyst. And he's turned you down, hasn't he? Oh, my, now I get it- you want to keep him under your wing, and he's having none of it."

An eyebrow arched on Mycroft's otherwise inscrutable face. "Perhaps I have underestimated your intelligence, Detective Inspector Lestrade. Yes, you are correct. An offer was made and declined. Well, I say declined, although totally ignored is probably the more accurate description."

"How old is Sherlock?"

The question seemed to surprise Mycroft. "Twenty-five. I don't see the relevance of the question."

Greg stifled a smile. "Any twenty five year old would rather not work for a family member. And you're his brother, not his father, so he'd resent it even more. Because he is what he is, he will be more determined than most to show that he can be independent. It's not surprising that he turned you down. You shouldn't take it personally."

"He isn't capable of living independently, because of what he is. That much he has proven since he left university."

"Well, maybe that's because he hasn't found sufficient reason to stay clean and look after himself. If he wants the case work enough, he will do it. I have faith, Mr Holmes."

"With respect, Detective Inspector, you have very little experience of working with my brother, and even less of how well he can manage his own affairs."

"If he proves it by doing what is necessary to get out of that clinic, will you let him try this? I am prepared to keep my eye on him, as well as keep him busy with casework."

"Why would you do that?"

There was a sense of déjà vu for Greg, as he thought back to Sherlock's surprise last night, and his use of almost the same phrasing of the question. It made Greg wonder just what the hell the Holmes brothers' home life must have been like, that they would both be so suspicious. He realised that Mycroft was having trouble shaking off his worries about motivations, but he guessed he'd be as protective of Sam if their positions were reversed. "As I've said, I hate the thought of that talent going to waste. And, as he seems prepared to take it from me, I am willing to give him a steer once in a while. It would be only fair, given that it's my team that will benefit."

"You overestimate his ability to get on with others; he will disrupt your team, alienate everyone on it, you included, in short order. It won't last, and then he will be worse than back to square one."

Greg lost it. "Christ, give him a bloody chance! It can't get any worse than him trying to kill himself!"

It was as if he had slapped him. Mycroft Holmes looked shocked for a split second, before the mask slipped almost instantly back into place.

Greg decided that he had to make his point in a way that could not be misunderstood. He leaned forward, arms on the desk. "He's already shown you that he won't play it your way. Maybe this is just the challenge he needs to get himself sorted. And as for your idea that he will be too 'high maintenance' to handle, well, I've already seen some of that on the weekend when he was coming off of cocaine. I handled that OK. So did he. As for my team, well, they are my team and they will do what I bloody well tell them to do. Because of Sherlock, that team now has one of the best reputations in the Yard. Time they met the reason why. I can't imagine he'd have been the most popular boy in the schoolyard. I've watched my own nephew deal badly with that kind of bullying. So, if he's prickly to others, then I get that. I will protect my team, and I will protect him. I am a patient man, Mr Holmes. I've already demonstrated that, so you don't need to question my motives further."

Silence fell in the office. Mycroft put his coffee down, and then stood, pulling his jacket into line again. He picked up the briefcase and furled umbrella beside the chair. He then stopped for a moment, looked Lestrade in the eye and said quietly, "I will consider what you have said, Detective Inspector, and I may get back to you. Good day."

Greg watched him leave the office. _I've given it my best shot, Sherlock. Let's hope it's enough._

oOo

A week later, he got his answer. He took a call on the way back from a crime scene. It was Doctor Cohen.

"Good afternoon, Detective Inspector Lestrade. Would you be prepared to come out to the clinic tomorrow with a couple of cold cases?"

He smiled. "Yes, of course, as long as Mycroft Holmes has agreed."

She laughed. "It was an interesting discussion, no doubt, but I believe this is the first time I've ever seen the Holmes brothers agree on something- that you are a pretty amazing hostage negotiator. And, for the record, I agree with that conclusion, so I am looking forward to seeing you tomorrow."

* * *

**author's note:** That is the end of the Interregnum plot line. I will be interested to know if you think it is a realistic treatment of how Sherlock and Lestrade get to the point of working together, and what you think are the key features of their relationship that you would like to see developed. The next installment will start in a few day's time- as Sherlock starts working; it will be fun to explore early days of his relationship with Anderson and Donovan, as well as how Lestrade manages to keep an eye on Sherlock! This will carry on through Lestrade's first meeting of John, and beyond.


	20. Author' s Note

**Author's Note**: While you are waiting for the next instalment, check out _Ex Files- Exile_. It's a little snippet that hit the cutting room floor, which looks at Sherlock and Lestrade in the pre-John years


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter Twenty One- 2005 Cold Case Guy**

* * *

"Trott's Tower, Breyards Estate, Peckham- it's flat 823, Guv. Oh, and the lift's not working, so it's eight flights up, take your time." Sally Donovan tried to keep the disappointment out of her tone of voice. _Professional, Sals- just keep it professional_, she told herself.

"Right then; I'm on my way." Lestrade was calm, cool and collected. _As always. Never seen him get annoyed._ She cursed inwardly, trying to keep her face as deadpan as possible, while the police constables were looking at her.

It was Sally's first crime scene as Senior Investigating Officer. As a newly promoted Detective Sergeant, she had been waiting for this opportunity to show what she could really do, and then she'd drawn this bloody case. She stifled the sigh and turned to the Forensic Crime Scene Examiner, Don Anderson.

"You're absolutely sure?"

"Of course, I'm sure." He smirked. She didn't like the way his eyes wandered over the front of her white blouse. She was dressing conservatively these days, enjoying the freedom of being out of a uniform, but trying to project an image of maturity. It was _so _hard being a woman on one of the Murder Investigation Teams in the Met's Homicide and Serious Crime Division. Less than 20% of the officers assigned to the MITs were female. It was a "lad's culture" and she felt that she always had to work twice as hard to prove herself than her male colleagues. Add to that the fact that she wasn't a white, Anglo-Saxon male in his forties, and she had to work three times as hard to win respect.

For that reason alone, she'd been looking forward to this day for months. To ensure that the process was fair, everyone taking the role of SIO for the first time was simply given a date and a number- and had to cope with whatever case came up on that day. This avoided any sense of favouritism- no 'soft touches' or easy cases for someone being fast-tracked.

Once again, she cursed her luck. _Why me?_ Sometimes, she felt there was an evil deity just out to get her. The case had been called in by a neighbour, who complained about the smell coming from the studio flat next door- the one that was supposed to have been condemned and boarded up, after a catastrophic water leak several months before. Council-owned, it would take months before anyone got around to repairs, refurnishing and re-renting it.

The constable had arrived, broken down the door and discovered a naked body in a serious state of decomposition. The detective team had been called in, and it was her bad luck to be the name at the top. The body was lying in a totally empty flat- no furniture, no carpets, no nothing to give a clue. Worse still, the metal front door was not only locked with two different locks, it had three bolts- all of which had been closed. It had taken the constable almost twenty minutes with the ram to break in. The building supervisor had a set of door lock keys- the previous occupants had done a midnight flit, leaving three months of rent arrears and extensive water damage. But the three manual bolts were new. And had been locked from the inside. On the eighth floor of the high rise tower block, there were no balconies, no access from the windows, which had been boarded up after the flood, when the window frames had warped to the point where the windows broke under the strain.

"So, you think it's a suicide then?" She sounded disappointed. She had hoped for a murder enquiry. Statistics showed that when a DS's first OiC assignment was a murder enquiry, their prospects for early promotion improved. Nothing like solving a murder to attract the right kind of attention.

And she wanted to impress her DI, she really did. Lestrade had given her a lot of opportunities, and she was grateful. She wanted to make him proud of her. But this case would not be one to write home about.

Anderson turned to look at the body: moderately obese, white male in his mid- forties, no obvious cause of death, no marks, bruises, wounds, or evidence of a struggle; aid out on his back, with his arms crossed in front of him. "The constable who called us in was a jerk- this is an undertaker's job, not a Murder Investigation Team's work. We'll have to wait for the autopsy to find out the COD, but from the liver temperature and the lividity, rigor and all- not to mention the stench, he's been here for almost a week."

The two PCs on her team had done door-to-door enquiries, no one in the building recognised the guy from the photo they'd taken on their phones to show around. The super was sure he wasn't an estate resident. _Great, just a boring a John Doe who topped himself- just what I need._

"No other trace in the flat?" She tried to avoid sounding disappointed. After all, by society's standards, she was sure the neighbours would be relieved that it wasn't a murder.

Anderson just gestured around the flat. "Where? The place is clean as a whistle; washed out by the flood, and there isn't a fibre or hair in the place that isn't on that body."

Which left her with an unidentified body in a locked room, so almost certain to be a suicide. And she couldn't even identify him or give an indication of the cause of death. She'd done all the procedures, all that remained was DI Lestrade's visit to sign off on the disaster that was her first case. She sighed.

oOo

When DI Lestrade crossed the threshold, he had someone in tow. Sally looked at the person with him- smart suit, no tie, longish hair, sort of good looking in an unusual way. She thought she vaguely recognised the young man, but couldn't place him.

Lestrade did not pull on a forensic blue suit; he was relying on Sally Donovan's judgement that this was a suicide. He looked at the body, and then nodded to Sally. "So, give me the low-down."

She frowned. "Who's the civilian, Guv?"

Lestrade looked back at the young man who was staring at the body. "This is Sherlock Holmes. He's the cold case consultant I've been working with for the past couple of months."

"Oh." She was intrigued. Most of the Yard had been agog at Lestrade's new leads on old cases; he'd managed to surprise just about everyone with his clear up rate. So, she took a good look.

"What's he doing on my crime scene, if he's into cold cases?"

"He was with me when your call came through. I thought he might be helpful."

Anderson was watching at the young man. He'd heard the explanation that Lestrade had given Sally, but he was suspicious. The young man looked away from the body and scanned the room, looking at the floor, ceiling, walls, windows and the corridor that led off to the rest of the flat. Even the door he'd just come through into the flat got a glance. Then the young man turned his attention back to the body. Anderson's suspicion flared as the tall brunet reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of latex gloves which he put on with an ease that spoke of considerable practice. The interloper took two strides and crouched near the head of the dead man.

"Hey! Don't you _dare_ touch that body!" It was a shriek of indignation.

Donovan was giving Lestrade chapter and verse on her procedure, but at Anderson's outburst, his head whipped around to look at the Forensic Examiner.

"Relax, Anderson. Let him have a look."

"He'll compromise the crime scene!"

"Oh, no I won't. You've already done that, officer." This was said quietly, as Sherlock continued unperturbed by the outburst.

"What do you mean, compromised? I'll have you know this crime scene has been processed according to police procedures that you wouldn't even begin to understand, mister."

"Yes, well, if that's true, then the less said about police procedure, the better."

Anderson was outraged. "Lestrade! This is insufferable. Just who is this…git, and what is he doing on my crime scene? My Manager is going to hear about this, and he'll take it right up to the Borough Manager. I'll take it to the bloody Director of Forensic Services, if I have to." His face was livid now.

"Anderson!" Lestrade's voice carried the weight of years of command behind it, and Anderson was stopped midway through a deep breath, just as he was about to continue his tirade. Even Sally blanched. DI Lestrade was not a man who threw his weight around, or bullied his team. For a moment, she glared at Anderson. It was _her_ crime scene, damn it- not his!

Sherlock carried on examining the body, lifting the hands and examining the arms, palms, and fingers, totally ignoring the fire-fight that was going on above him.

Lestrade continued in a calmer voice. "Anderson, just get off your high horse for a minute and listen. You've already pronounced on the scene and closed your work here. Donovan just told me she concurs- this is a case of suicide."

"No, it isn't." This was said quietly by the young man who was now lifting up the dead man's head to look at the back of it.

This got the attention of Lestrade, Anderson and Donovan, all three of whom stared at the brunet, as he stood up and pulled his gloves off. He looked directly at Lestrade, ignoring the Forensics Crime Examiner and the Sergeant.

"It's a homicide. Most likely murder, although manslaughter can't be ruled out until we question the perpetrator." This was delivered with no inflection in tone, as calmly as if reading a weather forecast.

Both Sally and Anderson responded at almost exactly the same time.

"That's preposterous!" "Don't be absurd!"

Sally closed the distance between her and the young man, and looked up at him. "Mr Holmes, is it? I don't care how many cold cases you've looked at; this is my scene and I know a suicide when I see one. I suppose the murderer talked the body into getting up and locking the three bolts behind him when he left?"

Sherlock didn't even acknowledge her presence, but kept his eyes on Lestrade, who lifted his eyebrows, seeking clarification. "Sherlock, it _does_ seem a sort of open and shut case."

"You observe, but you do not _see_, Lestrade." He turned now to Anderson, as if noticing him for the first time. "Your Crime Scene Examiner didn't use an ALS, obviously. If he had, _before_ half the Met walked in here, we might have seen something interesting. Even now, it could help."

Anderson exploded. "An ALS, what the hell would we need a UV light for? This is a suicide. What do you not understand about boarded up windows and three manual bolts closed from the inside? I can assure you, there is no murder here, just a dead body on the floor of a man who topped himself. We'll let the medical examiner determine cause of death, but I think it's likely to be a drug overdose."

Sherlock turned back to Lestrade. "If you have an ALS torch, I will show you what I mean."

Sally was furious. Just when she was supposed to be impressing her boss, this amateur was annoying everyone. More important, he was ignoring her, as if she wasn't even in the room. She decided to exert her authority. "Anderson, just get a flipping torch, will you? Let's get this done with so we can all head back to the station and get the paperwork started."

Anderson glared at her. "It's NOT a murder; it's a SUICIDE!"

"Then let's both enjoy proving it and showing the Guv just what an idiot the cold case guy is then. Go get the light."

Anderson stormed out to the corridor where the forensic kit box was.

The tall brunet was talking to Lestrade again. "Look at the way the body is laid out. A suicide's arms would not be crossed like that. It was done post mortem, before rigor set in. The murder didn't take place here in the room; the body was brought here. The ALS would show drag marks of some sort, if he'd used it before obliterating the evidence by stupidity. It should, if we are lucky, still show some signs of an unaccounted-for person, the murderer. More important than all of this- just where are his clothes!? Didn't anybody wonder how a naked man could come up eight flights of stairs, let himself into the room, and then kill himself? If he was a suicide, there'd be a bottle of pills or some tell-tale sign, as well as a pile of his clothes. There is no injection mark on him in any obvious place he could reach- and no syringe either. So, unless this naked obese man was able to drug himself and run up eight flights of stairs before it took effect, then this...is...a...murder."

Sally thought through what he said. "So, what if a friend helped him out- came up here with him, took his clothes and his drugs or whatever he used to kill himself, and then left, leaving the guy to lock everything up?"

Sherlock frowned. "What kind of person would do that? More likely to be a murderer than a 'friend', wouldn't you agree, Detective Inspector? In any case, the ALS will show us, _if that Forensic Officer ever gets in here._" His annoyance was clear.

Anderson strolled in, carrying an ASTRA torch light kit with three pairs of glasses, which he handed around, purposefully not giving one to Sherlock. Lestrade told the PCs to leave the room and Anderson reached for the spray from the kit. Sherlock just snorted. "You won't need that; for God's sake, the floorboards are already soaked from the flood; if anything, it should show a negative where the pressure of footprints pressed moisture out of the floor."

Anderson looked a bit embarrassed, and then snarled at the PC by the door, "Kill the lights then."

The torch went on, and he shined it onto the floor around the body. There were literally dozens of footprints, different sizes and shapes. Lestrade took his forensic glasses off and handed them to Sherlock, who scanned the rest of the room.

"Well, what more proof do you need?" Sherlock's snide tone was clear.

Anderson scowled. "There are too many footprints this late into the crime scene processing- at least eight people have been in here. There is no way to say that one of these is a murderer's prints."

Sherlock just laughed. "You really don't see, do you?" He looked around incredulously at Lestrade and then Sally.

She crossed her arms. "I see the same thing that Anderson sees- a total mess, which is why the ALS wasn't used."

"Detective Sergeant, what you see are a lot of _shoe_ prints. Do you see anywhere in this flat a _foot_ print, that is, the mark made by the _bare_ foot of that _naked_ man who is lying on the floor? Unless he flew in here and killed himself without touching the floor, then one would presumably have found a footprint that belonged to him."

_Oh, shit. He has a point. And he's just made me look like a complete idiot in front of Lestrade._ She decided to deflect some of the anger she was feeling. "So, Anderson, what do you say to that?"

Sherlock continued, however, "Don't bother trying to answer, Anderson, because you don't know what you should be looking for, clearly. May I?" He reached out to take the torch from Anderson, who was so shell shocked by the tall brunet that he let it be pulled out of his grip. Sherlock shone the light down the corridor, where there were two different sets of footprints, both shoes rather than bare feet, both going down the corridor to the loo. But there was only one set coming back again. "I presume one set belongs to a PC who checked the bathroom, and the other set probably belongs to the murderer, so I suggest we follow the evidence, shall we?" Sherlock went down the hall and into the bathroom. This room was tiny- a toilet, shower stall, basin and small boarded up window. He pointed to a black scuff mark on the toilet.

"The killer stood here on the toilet." He shined the light up on the ceiling tiles, where there was a set of finger marks on four tiles above the loo. He continued, "You're looking for someone who is about 5 foot seven inches, and weighs less than 70 kilos- quite possibly a woman, given the narrowness of the shoe print."

Lestrade gestured to Sally, who reluctantly by stepping onto the toilet seat and popped open the same four ceiling tiles, being careful to avoid the fingerprints. She stepped up onto the toilet cistern and poked her head into the ceiling space.

"Bloody hell...Guv, you'd better send a PC or two to the flat upstairs- there'll be loose floorboards in their loo- and that's where the murderer escaped!"

As she clambered down, Sherlock carried on talking to Lestrade. "The tread is from a shoe used by medical personnel- probably a nurse or a doctor. Tell the coroner to investigate death by insulin; the victim is clearly a diabetic, given the needle pricks on his finger tips to test his blood sugar levels on a daily basis. It's actually quite clever; in theory, the cause of death could be hidden. Diabetics who want to kill themselves generally do it by a lethal overdose. Trouble is, they don't just sit there unmoving' they sweat like hell and thrash about, so the nurse got it wrong to put the arms like that. The mistake makes it more likely that perpetrator is a nurse; a doctor would probably know the actual effects of an insulin overdose. But the position of the arms shows some semblance of respect for the deceased, so not likely to be a crime of passion or hate, more likely to be a relationship of some sort, possibly familial." This was all delivered at a pace that left Sally reeling. Anderson was standing in the corridor with his mouth agape.

Lestrade just smiled. "OK, Donovan, I suggest you join the PCs upstairs, now that you know you are looking for a medical professional. This is _your_ murder investigation now, so get on with it."

She paused for a moment, looking back at the tall brunet. _Thanks for making me look like a prat, cold case guy. I won't forget this._

oOo

Sally took less than two days to wrap up the case, winning praise for her efficiency. The upstairs flat was occupied by a bed-ridden octogenarian, who had a daily nurse service. Two weeks ago, the visiting nurse had said the toilet was leaking and she'd call a plumber. The repair obviously involved cutting the floorboards to get access to the empty flat below.

The nurse was arrested and confronted by the evidence. The victim was her brother, from whom she'd been estranged for years. He suffered from diabetes, and she was the principal beneficiary of his will, despite their quarrel. When the nurse's boyfriend threatened to leave her if she didn't stump up half of the deposit on a new flat, she'd decided to do her brother in to collect the inheritance. Her boyfriend had helped carry the body in, and she'd done the bolts. She'd stone-walled at first in the interview, claiming that it must have been a suicide. Sally pointed out the mistakes she had made by not leaving his clothes or the syringe; it was the final straw that made her break down and confess to the crime.

Lestrade congratulated her on closing the case, but Sally took little comfort in that. It still rankled that she had not spotted how wrong a suicide verdict was. While pleased to close the case, she apologised.

"I'm sorry, Guv. Just didn't see past the locked room scenario. I won't make the same mistake twice, I assure you, whatever your cold case guy thinks."

The Detective Inspector just laughed kindly. "Relax, Sergeant Donovan; he has that effect on a lot of people. Believe it or not, my very first case as Senior Investigating Officer was ten years ago, and a sixteen year old kid named Sherlock Holmes embarrassed the hell out of me by proving that my original call of a homicide was simply an accident. He sees things that even the best of us can't see. Don't let it bug you."

But it did. It always did. And Sally never, ever forgave him for it.

* * *

**Author's Note: **If you want to know how Sherlock got from Rehab to starting out as a "Consulting Detective", read the Ex Files- Exterior coming up tomorrow! If you are following this story, think about following ExFiles because I will be switching back and forth a bit over the next few weeks.


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter Twenty Three- 2009 Role Model**

* * *

"What do you mean, you have no new cases? Surely, _something_ has happened? There are twenty four Murder Investigation Teams at the Met. At least one of those must be working on something fresh. Tell them to work with me."

If there was a trace of whine in the tone, Greg chose to ignore it. He knew Sherlock was bored, the young man had told him so, repeatedly.

"Sorry, it's an unexpected lull. I'm afraid I can't whip up a triple murder on command, Sherlock; life just isn't like that, or maybe I should re-phrase that- death isn't like that. The boys and girls at the Yard are keeping themselves busy with existing investigations, or digging through the cold case files that you've already rejected as too easy or too boring. In any case, I'm not working this weekend, so it's no good complaining to me."

He could hear the huff on the other end of the phone.

"Don't whinge, Sherlock. It's a lovely day out. Go for a walk, do something spontaneous. If you stay in looking at the four walls of your flat, you'll be tempted to do something silly, like that experiment that got you evicted last time."

"Lestrade, walking with no purpose is pointless."

"But, that's the idea – just enjoy the fresh air and sunshine."

"You don't understand. What seems a pleasant stroll to you is to me physical exercise that inundates my senses with useless information that serves no purpose. Why would I inflict that on myself?"

"Well, I'm sorry, but I can't help. I'm on babysitting duty. My sister Carole dropped Sam off this morning, and I've got him for the weekend. So, I'm not planning on going out anywhere that would amuse you."

"I thought your wife didn't get on with Sam."

"She doesn't. She's at her mum's today and tomorrow, helping prepare for her dad's birthday party on Monday night. I'll drop Sam off at Carole's on Sunday and join her at the party in Esher after work. Now that you know my every movement between now and then, what else can I do for you?"

He tried to keep the note of impatience out of his voice, but he was getting worried that he hadn't heard any noise coming out of the living room where Sam was supposed to be keeping himself amused, while Greg took the call in the kitchen.

"I'm coming over to your flat, should be there in about thirty minutes."

"Sherlock, I meant it. I'm not going to be free to do anything with you this weekend." The thought of dealing with one twelve year old autistic child was challenging enough. Adding a thirty year old autistic adult, who sometimes reminded him of the twelve year old, was beyond comprehension.

"I'm not coming to see _you,_ Lestrade. I want to meet Sam."

_Oh, that's …unexpected._ He decided to proceed with caution. "Why?"

"Because I am curious, Lestrade, to know if there is anything I can help with. I mean I have some…experience of what it is like to be on the other side."

He hesitated. He knew that Sherlock would hear the hesitation and probably deduce the reasons why.

He heard a sigh from the young man. "You are going to be spending roughly 45 hours in the company of a child. At the very least, having someone there to take on a few hours of that should be greeted with relief. I don't know why everyone always assumes that I won't get on with children."

Greg sniggered. "Maybe that's because we see how you deal with adults who try your patience."

"Yes, but that's the whole point, isn't it?! They are adults, not children. I find children…fascinating. Their minds haven't yet been corrupted by boring conventionality and predictability. And Sam just might be more interesting than most of the children I meet."

The older man was thinking the idea through, when Sherlock interrupted. "Lestrade, there are too many people who think that autistic children should be hidden away from any social contact. I think that is more about _their_ social embarrassment than about what the child actually needs. I'm on my way." And the phone line went dead before Greg could come up with any good reason why Sherlock and Sam shouldn't meet.

He went back into the living room and realised what Sam had been doing to keep himself busy. The boy had taken all of his wife's books off the three book shelves that he could reach, and was now re-organising them by size and colour. There were nearly ten small piles of books on the floor, and he was now neatly creating an eleventh. _It's going to drive Louise nuts the next time she tries to find a book by alphabetical order._ That said, he had to admit that the visual impact on the living room would an improvement. Maybe it's just a different way of seeing things, he mused.

He headed back to the kitchen to see if he had enough pizza in the freezer to feed three. He wasn't sure that Sherlock would eat, but it was worth a try. At least he wasn't working on a case. He made a salad, and pre-heated the oven and set the table. _Maybe I can convince Sherlock to eat because he should show Sam the importance of good nutrition?_ The harder challenge would be getting Sam to eat at a table; he'd never managed that previously with Greg.

By the time he returned to the living room, Sam was starting to put the piles of books back onto the shelves. "Here, let me help you. We need to finish putting these away before my friend arrives." Sam didn't look at him, but carried on putting the books up. Greg lifted a pile.

"No, not those. This pile goes next, and then three others."

"Why?"

A baritone voice answered. "Because they need to be in the right order, the order of the colours of the rainbow."

Sam didn't look up, but he just said, "Yes."

Greg smiled a greeting to Sherlock, who had let himself into the flat. He'd given the young man a key years ago. "Better that you have a key than you pick my locks; if you want in, you'll get in; just don't do it when Louise is here," Greg had sighed as he handed over the copy.

Sherlock bent over and picked up the first of three yellow piles and handed it to Ben who slid them onto the shelf. Greg started to reach for the nearest of the other two yellow piles, but Sherlock stopped him. "The other one- it's in order of colour saturation."

Sam stopped and tilted his head. He still wasn't looking at either of the two men. "What's 'saturation'?"

Sherlock handed him the correct pile. "Related to chromaticity, saturation tells us how a colour looks under different lighting conditions. For example, your bedroom painted a solid colour appears different at night than in daylight. Over the hours of the day, although the colour is the same, your eye sees it differently because the light is different."

Sam thought about this for a while as he pushed the books onto the shelf. "Yes. Colour at night- it's different from day, because of the light."

"Yes." Sherlock handed him the last of the yellow piles.

Greg just watched. He would not have thought to use words like 'saturation' or 'chromaticity' which would be, he thought, beyond Sam's vocabulary. Yet, the boy had grasped the concept. And Sherlock had not talked down to him, just helped him understand the words by relating them to the way he saw his own bedroom.

"Sam, this is Sherlock. He's having lunch here and spending some time with us." Sam just kept putting the books back on the shelf, and Greg wasn't sure if he'd understood.

Sherlock saw Greg's uncertainty. He gave a gentle smile. "Sam, what's my name?"

"Sherlock."

"Yes, it's an odd name, you are right. Your uncle didn't know if you realised it was my name, because you didn't look at him."

"That's stupid."

Sherlock smirked. "Well, yes, that may be true. But people like him need to use their eyes, because they don't understand things the way we do."

"You're different. You're like me?"

"Yes."

"Hmmm." Sam put the last pile of books on the shelf and stood back to look at the results.

"I like colours, too, so let's play a game. Go into the kitchen. Find me seven objects, in rainbow order, but start with green. So, what colours will you be looking for and in what order?"

"Green, blue, indigo, violet, red, orange and yellow." Sam chanted them off.

"That's right. Just walk around the kitchen and see them, but don't touch them or move the object; just remember where they are. You need to keep them secret, so don't tell me, I'm going to have to guess. I'm going to wait here, and then when you have decided about your objects, then tell your uncle to call me in for lunch."

oOo

_At least he is sitting down with us. Maybe he'll eat a slice of pizza without realising he is doing it. _For once, Greg was thinking about Sam, not Sherlock. Sam's attention usually wandered when it came to eating at a table. Carole had given up trying to have family meals pretty soon after Sam was able to sit in a high chair. As a baby, he fussed non-stop and wouldn't eat, and made life difficult for her and her husband, Steven. He came home tired after his work as an IT project manager, and needed some peace and quiet. So, over the years, Sam had got used to eating on his own- and rarely at a kitchen table.

Yet, here he was now, sitting patiently, watching Sherlock who was across the table from him. Studiously avoiding looking at Sam, the tall brunet was instead just looking everywhere else in the kitchen. "You're sure that every one of the seven objects is in plain sight?"

"Yes."

"New rule- no words. No yes or no, just nod your head for yes and shake your head for no."

Sam started to say, "okay" but was cut off by Sherlock. "No words, just nods or shakes."

That got Sam nodding. That meant Sherlock had to look at him briefly, with his peripheral vision, but he avoided direct eye contact.

"So, the first object is green."

Sam started to speak, stopped himself and nodded vigorously. He was watching Sherlock's eyes wandering around the kitchen.

"There are at least three possibilities. I'm going to deduce which one is right. Deduction means 'figuring something out'. I'm very good at it."

Lestrade smiled as he deposited a plate in front of the two of them, with a steaming slice of pepperoni pizza. He watched as Sam picked up the slice and bit off a piece while looking at the same bits of the kitchen that Sherlock was looking at.

"Right. It's the green pepper sitting in that vegetable basket."

"YE…" Sam stifled the word and just nodded vigorously. But, as he chewed, he couldn't stop himself from asking "how?"

Sherlock looked down at his own plate with a furrowed brow, and somewhat suspicious, he tore off a small piece and ate it. He didn't look at Sam. "Does your question 'how' mean how did I figure out it was the pepper and not the sponge by the sink, or the teapot? And remember, nods or shakes only."

Sam's left hand shook a bit. Lestrade knew from that his nephew was excited. He was enjoying this game. The boy nodded again as he chewed his next bite of pizza, and watching Sherlock's face as he pulled off another piece of his own and popped it into his mouth.

"Yeah, Sherlock, I want to know the answer to that question, too."

The young man smirked. "I will tell you both when we are done. Now, onto blue. There are no fewer than fifteen items in plain sight that are blue, so this one will be harder. Lestrade, your wife really likes home decorating, doesn't she?"

Now it was Greg's turn to smirk. "Yes, blue is her favourite colour, so I'm lucky the whole flat isn't covered in the stuff."

Sherlock moved his gaze around the kitchen, still keeping Sam within his peripheral vision. After a minute, he looked back down at his plate, and said quietly, "It's the tea towel on the drying rack beside the sink, isn't it?"

This time Sam just gave a rapid nod.

"Right, onto indigo. This one is harder, wasn't it Sam?"

Sam shook his head; he squirmed a bit in the chair, and bit his lip. He was clearly excited.

Greg wondered if he actually knew what the colour indigo was apart from a really dark blue. He looked around in vain; Louise preferred the light blues and pastel colours.

Sherlock said, "Well, Sam, you and I know what it is, but clearly your uncle doesn't know what we do, does he?"

This time Sam nodded furiously and his eyes lit up in excitement. He took a quick look at Greg out of the corner of his eye, then looked away and smiled.

_OH. My God, Sam actually smiled. Wow. I can't remember the last time I saw him smile. I must remember to tell Carole; she'll be thrilled._

"Uh, you're right; haven't a clue, Sherlock, so put me out of my misery."

"As ever, you observe but do not see. Sam and I know that there's actually only one item in the kitchen that qualifies as indigo- the jeans you're wearing."

Greg laughed at that. And saw Sam nodding furiously.

The rest of the game carried on as the pizza slices disappeared without anyone really thinking too much about it. At the end, Sherlock explained that he could tell when he looked at the right object by seeing Sam's eyes- his pupils dilated in excitement when Sherlock got it right. THat led to a detailed explanation as to why pupils dilate and constrict, and how it affected vision, and why pupils dilate when a person is excited. Lestrade questioned how Sherlock had seen it; "you never looked at Sam directly."

"I don't have to; I can watch when he isn't looking at me, and learn everything I need to know." Now he looked straight at Sam, who met his gaze, although he was a little uncomfortable about it. "And, Sam, if you get good at it like I am, then the other person won't even know you are doing it. It's safer that way." Sam looked away from Sherlock's direct gaze, but kept him in his peripheral vision.

"Yeah. I get it." He sounded a little amazed.

And Greg was pleased to have learned something new about both his nephew and his consulting detective- more gets done through a sideways glance and the challenge of a puzzle than by telling someone what to do or how to do it.


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter Twenty Four -2010 Consequences**

* * *

It was Lestrade's worst nightmare. He worked hard to keep an eye on his team, and their record of injuries was testament to his success. The Homicide and Serious Crimes Division was tough enough, but the Murder Investigation Teams were a class unto themselves. Most of the criminals they apprehended were by definition more than willing to use lethal force to resist arrest. Mind you, health and safety was an important part of police training at Hendon College, and the Met put a high premium on ensuring that the public was not harmed by police activity, and that colleagues looked after one another.

Unfortunately for the DI, his civilian consulting detective had not been a graduate of Hendon, and he often drove Lestrade to distraction, as a result. Over the past five years, Sherlock's tendency to go off on his own in pursuit of suspects had led to more than his fair share of knocks, scrapes and bruises, not to mention two broken bones.

No matter how many times he lectured the lanky brunet, Lestrade knew that the temptation would always be there. So, three years ago he instituted a new team procedure. One of the police constables would be tasked with keeping his or her eye on Sherlock at a crime scene and if he went off on his own, to follow closely and serve as backup.

Sally Donovan was the one who called it "babysitting". Lestrade couldn't stop the team from using the pejorative phrase amongst themselves, but he made it absolutely clear that it could never be used in the earshot of the individual concerned, unless the person wanted an official reprimand on their file.

Tonight, however, he was beginning to see Sally's point of view. It had been like dozens of earlier cases- a baffled team standing around late at night eying an unnamed unidentified dead body, while Sherlock unleashed his deductive observations. "You're looking for a suspect who is approximately six foot tall, and nearly 200 pounds. The fact that he lifted the body from the car and carried it a good forty feet to this waste ground from the nearest road is sign of considerable upper body strength.. He's left handed, and works in manual labour, most likely to be a plumber, given the weapon is a pipe bender."

The Forensic Crime Scene Examiner looked puzzled at this last statement, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, do keep up, Jeffries; the wound is clearly caused by a blunt instrument and the copper shavings beside the body are highly indicative of piping rubbish that clogs up a bender. This is hardly rocket science." Lestrade was just thankful it wasn't Anderson who had been assigned to the crime; Sherlock would have been far ruder if that had been the case.

"You need to look on the traffic cameras for a plumber's van in the vicinity, during the hours of four to six pm, and that will start your process of elimination. A door-to-door canvass should reveal where he was working and possibly get you an ID for the body. " Lestrade stepped in at this moment and assigned roles to the Sally and the two PCs, on the case. It was late, so they'd need to work fast on the door to door work; too many people would refuse to answer their doors if it got much later, even to the police. It was a tough neighbourhood.

Jeffries continued his processing of the body, bagging the hands and feet to protect any trace, and unzipping the body bag that would be used to transport the dead man to the morgue. Sherlock just watched, and then turned away, lost in thought. Lestrade asked Sally if she thought there was any connection between this murder and the body they had found on a construction site six weeks ago. That case had turned up no clues as to why the electrician would have been killed; their investigation turned up no motive or viable suspects. Sally was mulling over the idea when Lestrade heard the tell-tale "OH!"

Sally flinched at the sound of Sherlock's exclamation. "God, he sounds like he just had an orgasm or something. I've always said he gets off on this stuff." Lestrade grimaced, by but the time he'd turned around, Sherlock was more than half-way across the waste ground and gathering speed. In the darkness, it was hard to see where he was headed.

"Roberts! Get after him, will you!?" Lestrade glared at the newest PC on the team, who'd only been in post for three weeks, and had not yet had a stint on Sherlock watch.

By the time the constable had reached the fence on the far side, Sherlock had vanished. Roberst looked back at the pool of crime scene lights, and wondered what he was supposed to do now. When he used his airwave to tell Sally that he'd lost track of Holmes, the news was greeted by an expletive, and he heard her call out "Lestrade, he's done it again, run off. Why the hell he can't tell somebody what's going on, I don't know. He's just a liability; we can't afford to spend police time chasing after him when goes off on a whim like this. Roberts is needed for the door-to-door."

Lestrade came onto the radio. "Tell me what direction he was headed in, Roberts; what was he doing?"

"Can't say, Guv' it's too bloody dark! He was gone by the time I reached the fence; there's a ripped bit, and my guess is he just hot through, but there's any one of a half a dozen different directions- buildings, houses, and it's an intersection of two streets, so God knows where. I'm sorry. I just didn't realise he was so quick."

He heard the sigh. "Come back now, Roberts. And get instructions from Donovan about which houses to do your door to door canvassing."

Greg dug his phone out of his pocket and hit Sherlock's number on speed dial. No reply. He texted.

**10.43pm Where are you? GL**

**10.45pm Sherlock, what's going on? What are you investigating? GL**

**10.48pm Answer your bloody phone! **

**10.50 Are you alright? If no reply, will have to call in BB**

That was Greg's final warning, and one he hated to use. But at 11pm, he gave up and called Mycroft's number.

The usual female voice answered on the second ring. "Detective Inspector, how may I help?"

"Have you got eyes on Sherlock? He's just gone AWOL from a crime scene and won't or can't answer his phone. That makes me worried."

"Hold on, please."

She came back on less than a minute later. "We have a problem, Detective Inspector. He was tracked seven minutes ago on the CCTV on Cuthbert Place, running north, but not pursued. However, none of the next cameras within a radius of 800 meters has picked him up yet, and one of them should have by now. Suggest you investigate there. I will be informing Mr Holmes, our team and SO6. You're closer, so take action now." The line went dead.

_Shit. _This was Lestrade's nightmare, and it was happening now for real.


	24. Chapter 24

**Author's Note**- for some reason, the last paragraphs of Chapter Twenty Three were not on the first posting; I corrected it, but for those of you who read it before the correction, I repeat below the section you may have missed.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty Four- 2010 Consequences**

* * *

…At 11pm, he gave up and called Mycroft's number.

The usual female voice answered on the second ring. "Detective Inspector, how may I help?"

"Have you got eyes on Sherlock? He's just gone AWOL from a crime scene and won't or can't answer his phone. That makes me worried."

"Hold on, please."

She came back on less than a minute later. "We have a problem, Detective Inspector. He was tracked seven minutes ago on the CCTV on Cuthbert Place, running north, but not pursued. However, none of the next cameras within a radius of 800 meters has picked him up yet, and one of them should have by now. Suggest you investigate there. I will be informing Mr Holmes, our team and SO6. You're closer, so take action now." The line went dead.

_Shit. _This was Lestrade's nightmare, and it was happening now for real.

He was the one officer who didn't actually have anything concrete to do in the current investigation, so Lestrade left Sally Donovan in charge of the crime scene and headed for the hole in the fence. Once through, he spotted the CCTC camera that was focused on the intersection of Cuthbert Street and Parsons Crescent. He crossed and carried on up Cuthbert Street. There was another junction up ahead about a quarter of a mile, controlled by traffic lights, so he guessed that was where the next camera might be. Somewhere between here and there, Sherlock had disappeared off the radar.

_Why would he come up here? What did he realise when he said that bloody "OH" of his? _Lestrade slowed his pace and really looked up and down the street. He could hear that snide comment echoing in his ears. _You observe, but you do not see, Lestrade._

"What did you see, Sherlock?" he muttered to himself.

The road looked like any other East London road, lined by two storey terraced houses, built in the early part of the last century, to house London's East End working class cockneys. The only exception was where German bombs in the 1940s destroyed sections; these spaces were now occupied by flats built in the 1960s and 70s to house council tenants. The old blocks were marooned amidst re-furbished and gentrified houses, probably now owned by much better paid City workers. Parked cars lined both sides of the streets; BMWs and luxury cars for the houses, smaller compacts in front of the flats. Nothing out of the ordinary, then. _Think, Lestrade! Sherlock realised something important that took him in this direction._

The body on the waste ground had been dumped at least four hours ago, according to the Crime Scene Examiner's best estimate, and the death occurred elsewhere before then. So, Sherlock was not actually chasing some suspect fleeing the scene. It had to be something he knew about the area, or something he had seen some other time that brought him up this road.

Greg kept walking slowly northward, hoping that this something would leap out at him and say "Sherlock is here." For the first two hundred meters, nothing spoke to him. Not a whisper of an idea. He checked his watch and realised that a half hour had passed since the young man bolted from the crime scene. He checked his phone again on the chance that a reply had been texted. Nothing. His worry was reaching an excruciating level. His imagination was beginning to play worst case scenario of a tall lanky figure lying somewhere in a dark alley, bleeding to death.

He took a deep breath and shoved the image away. He needed to keep his focus, try to think his way to Sherlock. He looked across the street at another of the old blocks of flats. This one was unoccupied and being refurbished, with scaffolding up the sides. He carried on a few feet, and then stopped.

Wait a minute. He'd just talked to Sally about whether this murder could be in any way connected to the electrician's murder six weeks before. That body had been found three miles away, again on waste ground behind a building project. _What is it about this construction job that is catching my attention? What am I meant to see here, Sherlock?_

The name of the construction company was not the same as the one that ran the site where the electrician was found. But Greg knew that didn't necessarily mean anything. A lot of local sub-contractors could be involved in both sites. He wondered if any of their workmen might have been reported as missing.

He got on the phone. "Donovan- have you checked missing persons yet? See if anybody working for a construction company called Asrocap Ltd or involved in any way with a refurb job on Cuthbert Street has been called in as a missing person."

" Guv- they haven't come back yet on this body yet, but I'll tell them the new info and get back to you when they do. Found any sign yet of the Freak?"

He hated it when she called Sherlock that, but he didn't have the time or energy to waste giving her grief now. "Not yet; if he shows up back with you, tell me."

He walked across the street to take a closer look at the site. That's when he saw the torn plastic sheeting on the second storey scaffolding. The sheeting was usually erected to protect the workers from rain, and allow the brickwork repairs to set quicker, but one section was now loose and flapping in the wind. There were no lights on in the flats; clearly unoccupied. But that torn sheet niggled. A good contractor would have fixed it before leaving for the night. He climbed over the waist-height wall into the site. They were obviously re-doing the drains, as there were deep ditches surrounding the block and then one heading back to the street. With only the street light for illumination, he started climbing the ladder, wishing to hell that he had brought a torch, because it was so poorly lit that he could hardly see where he was going.

Looking down the planking on the second level of scaffolding to where the plastic was torn, he saw what he had been dreading- a dark figure lay prone, face down on the wood.

"_SHERLOCK!" _

Two fingers against a carotid artery told him that Sherlock was alive, but the pulse was weak and thready.

"Sherlock, come on, wake up." He hoped to God that it was just a case of being knocked unconscious, but there was no response. He couldn't see well enough in the dark to see any obvious wounds, but was afraid to turn him over, in case there were broken bones. Neck and spinal injuries could paralyse, if he did something wrong in his panic.

He got on the phone again to Sally. "I've found Sherlock. He's alive, but injured. Radio it in and get an ambulance to the construction site on Cuthbert Street." If she used the police airwave radio to reach the Control Room, the ambulance would be given a priority over a call from a civilian phone. He also knew from past experience that SO6 would be monitoring his team's radio communications by now, and that Mycroft's people would be, too. He had no idea how serious Sherlock's injuries were or what had caused them. All he could do is hope that help got there fast enough.

Greg remembered that unlike him, Sherlock always kept a small torch in his coat, so he patted down the Belstaff until he found what he was looking for in the inside chest pocket. Switching it on, he looked first at Sherlock's face, which was not bloodied or bruised in anyway. There were no obvious injuries, no blood pooling underneath him. The DI stood and looked out through the section of torn plastic, in the hope that he would see the lights of an ambulance soon.

Nothing, the streets were empty and silent. As he turned, something down on the ground below the scaffold- something shiny- caught his eye, so he shone the torch into the ditch directly below where he was standing.

"Oh!"

There, in a crumpled heap, was a large man at the bottom of the ditch, lying very still. From the angle of his head, Greg guessed he might have broken his neck. A meter or so away from the figure was a large shiny metal tool, a plumber's pipe bender. At that moment, he heard the ambulance siren as it came through a red light and turned up the street. As it rolled to a stop and the crew leapt out, Greg flashed his torch and shouted, "Up here!"


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter Twenty Five- 2010 Consequences (Part Three)**

* * *

Greg met Mycroft's eye as he strode up the hospital corridor toward the resus room. As much as an injured Sherlock featured in Lestrade's nightmares, it was the inevitable confrontation with Mycroft Holmes than he had always feared more. Until tonight, Sherlock's various bumps, scrapes and physical damage over the past five years had not yet led to his elder brother showing up at a hospital.

Five years ago, Lestrade had sworn to the elder Holmes that he would keep an eye on Sherlock, and make sure that the Consulting Detective did not come to harm. It had been a hard promise to keep over the years, given the younger Holmes' willingness to push the envelope of safety right to the limit. The occasional relapse and detox under Greg's supervision was one thing that Mycroft had been willing to watch from afar, because it had never lasted long. All Greg had to do was threaten Sherlock with an end to the case work, and he'd get back on the straight and narrow. The odd mishap and visit to the A&E whilst chasing a suspect had also passed without bringing Mycroft out of the shadows.

But, this time was different and Greg knew it.

Sherlock had been taken by ambulance to the Accident & Emergency Department of the Royal London Hospital at Whitechapel. The ambulance crew made Lestrade follow on behind them in unmarked police car driven by the two SO6 officers who had been assigned to look after Sherlock. They arrived almost simultaneously with one of Mycroft's men, so he told all of them where the ambulance was headed.

By the time Lestrade arrived at Whitechapel, Sherlock was already in the resus room being worked on by the A&E team, so he had no idea about how badly injured Sherlock was.

One of the nurses gestured to the chairs lining the corridor. "I'm sorry, Detective Inspector, but you will have to wait here." He had been waiting for about ten minutes when the double doors at the end of the corridor opened. Greg had a distinct case of déjà vu to the time when Sherlock had overdosed on the roof of the Peabody Buildings, as Mycroft came striding down the corridor, carrying his accusations of Greg's negligence as tightly furled as that umbrella of his.

This time, Mycroft walked straight past him and in through the doors of the resus room. As a family member, he had that right, and Greg did not. That fact pissed off Greg to an extraordinary degree, but he sat on his feelings. He'd been dealing with his emotions all night, and he told himself that he could handle this.

Lestrade tried to convince himself that he'd be feeling the same thing if it was one of his team members in there, but he knew that was a lie. The fact was that Sherlock had come to mean more to him over the years than just a "colleague." No matter how much Sherlock tried to keep him at arms-length, to ensure that their relationship appeared professional in the eyes of Lestrade's team, they both knew that there was an unsaid bond that pulled them together. It was one of the reasons why Sally Donovan did little to restrain her dislike of Sherlock; she could sense the connection and it made her jealous. The team resented their unspoken understanding, and the idea that much of their own reputation in the Yard was driven by Sherlock's extraordinary skills. Greg made a choice every time he involved the consulting detective; his need to solve the crime and see justice done was more important than any team member's ego or comfort. They didn't have to like him for it.

Yet, in return, Greg knew that Sherlock would never call him "friend"; the young man's lack of social skills, his refusal to modify his behaviour to suit others' feelings, his cultivation of a sociopathic persona- all of those things meant he was unlikely to acknowledge the ties. His ritual abuse of calling the DI an idiot, an unobservant plod, and "just like every other useless police officer" was in part to ensure that the team did not think there was anything personal between the two men. Greg knew that and accepted it as necessary; he worked hard at not taking offence. He reckoned that to Sherlock, everyone could safely be catagorised as unintelligent. And yet, Greg knew and Sherlock knew that when it came to it, the two could rely on each other to be there when it mattered.

Except tonight. When Sherlock had gone haring after his suspect, without telling anyone where he was going or what might happen when he got there, Lestrade had not had his eye on the young man. Yes, he had told Sherlock countless times to make sure someone knew, but he also knew that when that extraordinary mind pounced on a solution, ten steps in front of anyone else at a crime scene, he would not stop to explain himself. He knew it, and yet had been unable to stop Sherlock from taking absurd risks. Was it Sherlock's fault? Greg could not really blame the young man; he knew that poor impulse control and a lack of understanding about personal risk was something that came with the package that was Sherlock. He had promised Mycroft that he would compensate for that by protecting his brother. And tonight, he had failed in that duty.

After twenty more minutes of sitting, Greg rubbed the back of his neck and wished he could smoke a cigarette. Waiting for news was the worst part of the whole evening. It gave him time to blame himself and to pray that his lapse of concentration had not cost Sherlock his life. Greg was not sure how he would be able to deal with the guilt of that, nor how Mycroft Holmes would make him pay.

The swing doors on the resus room banged open and a trolley was pushed out, moving rapidly toward the lift at the other end of the corridor. Two junior doctors were positioned on either side and keeping their eye on the portable monitors. Standing up, Greg caught a glimpse of a head of dark hair, still strapped to a body board, neck braced and held rigid by plastic blocks. _Oh God, please, not a head or spinal injury._

Mycroft emerged seconds later, listening intently to a doctor. Greg noted that the doctor had no blood on his scrubs, and hoped that was a good sign. When the conversation finished, and the doctor turned away back toward the resus room, Mycroft looked down the corridor to where Greg was standing, and locked eyes. The DI saw nothing to take comfort from in that glance.

Greg stood his ground and waited as the elder Holmes came to him.

"He's being taken for scans and then to emergency exploratory surgery- blunt trauma to the abdominal area."

"How serious is it? And what's with the spinal collar?"

Mycroft lips thinned in disapproval. "The doctors won't say anything other than they won't know if it's life threatening until the surgery. Apparently, it's notoriously difficult to diagnose the full extent from scans or x rays. There are clear signs of significant internal bleeding and they suspect organ damage- liver laceration, possible splenic rupture. The initial X rays show a hairline fracture of his pelvis, as well as a fractured lower rib on his left side. And he has a serious concussion, which needs further investigation, because they suspect bleeding and swelling of his brain. All of which lead me to ask you a simple question, Detective Inspector- how was this allowed to happen?"

The question was asked in the mildest possible tone, yet Lestrade knew the implications that lay behind it, and the menace that was there, depending on what answer he gave.

Greg looked back down the corridor. He shrugged his shoulders and said lamely, "Well, you should see the other guy."

Mycroft scowled.

"As ever, Sherlock figured something out- and, no, I have no idea how, because you know as well as I do when he is in full-on mode, he doesn't stop to tell anyone anything. He must have figured out who the murderer was and where he'd be, just as easily as he earlier deduced the weapon used to kill the victims. We found that same weapon at the feet of a man who fit Sherlock's description. The suspect was dead, in a drainage ditch at the bottom of the block of flats where I found Sherlock on the second floor scaffolding. It doesn't take a Sherlock to deduce that when your brother caught up with the suspect, they fought, and Sherlock won."

"Let's all hope that my brother doesn't end up in a score draw then, Detective Inspector, by dying himself. This…game… as you describe it, isn't over yet." Lestrade felt the full force of that chilling gaze, and nodded his agreement.


	26. Chapter 26

**author's note: **a jump in time, but compensated for by a BIG chapter.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty Six 2010 Consequences (Part Four)**

* * *

Greg gathered a stack of books from the shelf and placed them into the cardboard box. It brought a memory back.

"Sherlock, your books aren't organised according to the colours of the rainbow, but they're not alphabetical either. What's your indexing strategy?"

Sherlock turned around from the tiny kitchenette, where he was packing up a box of scarcely used cooking utensils. He looked puzzled. "Why would you want to know? What difference does it make to you?"

Greg smirked. "Well, next time Sam comes to visit, he might decide the re-arrange our books again, and I will need to explain it to Louise. She didn't get it the last time, and I got an earful about it for days."

The tall brunet turned back to his task, while he answered. "It's in subject order, and then by the most useful and most often consulted volume in that subject being at the extreme right. When I am in a hurry working on a case, I don't want to faff about looking for data. I doubt Sam would do that to your books, because he doesn't use them. It he does rearrange them again, just ask him to explain it to you. He won't mind."

"Oh." Well, there was little else Greg could say to that- all very logical and practical.

Lestrade carried on packing, but used the mirror over the mantel piece to keep an eye on Sherlock as the younger man kept examining the items he was putting in the box, as if he'd never seen them before. It made Greg smile- clearly, someone else had kitted out the kitchen when he had moved into the one bed flat on Montague Street five years ago, and Sherlock had never used most of the kitchen tools in the intervening years.

To Greg's eye, the younger man bore little physical evidence of his injuries from twelve weeks ago. The broken bones were surprisingly quick to heal; weeks of enforced meals and regular sleep helped. The organ damage took longer; Sherlock's liver had been sliced up by shards of broken rib, and the bleeding took quite a toll. When he went into shock during the CT scan that first night, they'd rushed him into surgery for what was a serious Grade V laceration. Sherlock was only now recovering from continuing discomfort in his right shoulder area and stiffness in his abdomen.

Greg never wanted to live through another night like that, sitting in the hospital waiting room, caged up with Mycroft, both anxiously waiting for news about what the exploratory surgery had found, and worrying about Sherlock's concussion. When in the middle of a scan, Sherlock's haemoglobin and hematocrit levels dropped suddenly, the next three hours were even worse, as Sherlock underwent an emergency laparotomy to repair the trauma and stablise his blood loss. For most of that time, Mycroft had been on his phone, speaking monosyllabically to whomever it was he was supposed to be meeting. What Mycroft Holmes got up to at nearly midnight was a mystery, but Greg knew better than to ask.

Sherlock survived the surgery and then spent six weeks in a rehabilitation clinic. Fortunately, this one was for physical injuries rather than substance abuse or psychological issues, so he'd had more freedom. That said, the young man had railed against being forced into complete bed rest, to help the liver heal and to deal with the hairline fracture of his pelvis, too. The latter was a stable Type A facture that kept him totally flat on his back in bed for three weeks. Greg had learned a lot about the injuries and their treatment over the past three months.

The swelling and small cranial bleed caused by the concussion kept Sherlock out of it for almost two weeks. Looking back on it now, from the safety of a successful recovery, that downtime had helped, because it stalled the inevitable shouts of "BORED" that began to emerge from the hospital room by the fourth week.

For the first three weeks, Mycroft had refused Lestrade permission to visit. That rankled, but at least the elder Holmes texted with regular updates as to how Sherlock was faring. Only later did he learn that this was at Sherlock's insistence. He'd refused to take any oral medicine unless the texts were sent.

It had taken a four-day hunger strike to get Mycroft to relent and allow Greg to visit. The first thing he knew about it was when a black car dogged his steps on his way to the St James tube station. He'd phoned Louise to say he'd be missing dinner, as Mycroft laid down the new rules of engagement: no promises of a return to hot cases, a ration while in the clinic of only one cold case a week. And only one visit a week to deliver it and pick up the results of Sherlock's work on the previous one. Greg wasn't sure if that was meant as punishment for him, or for Sherlock, but he was grateful enough to take it. Better than nothing.

Even now, after Sherlock had been discharged for more than a month, the same rules of engagement were being enforced by Mycroft. Greg had resorted to texting at first to try and get around the rules, but stopped when his phone mysteriously stopped working. Thinking it was broken, he'd bought a new one, only to have the same thing happen after one text to Sherlock. The penny had dropped then, so Lestrade tried using a landline at the Yard. This resulted in Sherlock's mobile being disconnected. So, reluctantly the two of them agreed to stick to the rules for a while longer.

He watched Sherlock open the kitchen cupboard below the sink and bend down to empty it of cleaning products, putting them carefully in a plastic box for transport. The manoeuvre was done with a little less fluidity than normal, Greg noted. When he was released, the doctors said that it might be another month before Sherlock could safely return to any rigorous physical activity, and counselled changes in the young man's diet and lifestyle. The only way he'd got out of the clinic was to agree to a regular session in a gym as the alternative to physical therapy under supervision. He was on a strict rota of follow-up visits to the clinic to make sure the recovery process continued. Greg had been accompanying him on the latest trips, as Sherlock was getting more reluctant to keep the appointments as he felt better. It gave them another chance to meet and talk about cases. It was only a week ago that Greg had slipped in a couple of questions about an on-going investigation into the death of a pair of twins. After a ten minute discussion, Sherlock had cadged a cigarette off Lestrade and they'd enjoyed an illicit smoke in silence.

As he lifted the next pile of books into the packing crate, he caught the title of a thick paper back directory- Tradesmen in London. That brought a smile to Greg, as it made him remember the first occasion when he was allowed to visit Sherlock at the clinic.

"What took you so long, Lestrade? You must not want to solve that Cuthbert Street case."

Greg had stood beside the bed and looked at the young man's smirk. "Ok, smarty pants. Tell me the tale. I assume that your brother hasn't had it out of you yet?"

"Nope, we're not exactly on speaking terms. I've been saving it just for you."

The older man sat down and watched the smile emerge on Sherlock's face. "You really haven't figured it out, have you? What's it like to have such a pedestrian intelligence?"

Greg huffed. "Might be pedestrian, but then at least _I_ don't end up getting a pipe bender smashed into my liver. You do know that the suspect ended up with a broken neck after he fell from the scaffold?"

"Well, don't look at me- I was flat out on my face at the time. I can deduce, however, that he hit me with such force that the follow through unbalanced him. On my way down I hit one of the metal poles with the side of my head, and he must have tripped into me and over he went. I was out cold on the planking by the time he hit the ground."

Greg tried to visualise the fight, and then realised that Sherlock was looking at him with a slightly worried expression. "Relax, Sherlock, you're not a suspect in the murderer's demise. You can save me a lot of trouble, though, by telling me how the hell you figured out where he was hiding out when we don't even know who he was."

Sherlock stretched his neck a bit, so he could turn and look at Greg more easily. "His name was Bogdan Barlova- Bulgarian, and a work gang master. He brought in illegals from the Russian Caucus Republics, and hired them out all over East London. When they arrived, he confiscated their passports. The electrician was one of his- he murdered the guy when he threatened to report him to the UK Border Authority. Turns out, murder was his idea of labour relations- any complaints and the person simply disappeared. He wasn't the plumber, by the way. I got that wrong. The pipe bender belonged to the victim, who was the plumber. Should have seen that from the autopsy, look for the over-developed pollicis muscles in the palm of the hand- too much work with spanners. Barlova's weren't normal; your body on the waste ground had enlarged ones."

He seemed a bit short of breath, and Greg looked up at his face. Sherlock had closed his eyes.

"I'm tiring you out. I should probably go."

"Don't you dare. I've had to starve myself and endure a gastric feeding tube for the last three days to get this chance, so don't spoil it." Sherlock opened his eyes again and glared at Greg, before continuing, "You need to approach literally every construction project in the East End to see if a worker has mysteriously vanished. After that electrician died six weeks ago, I tried ringing as many companies as I could to see if there was a common sub-contractor working for them. Casual labour hired out for the day by Barlova would have been very hard to trace, but now that you know who to look for it will be easier. I had narrowed it down to a dozen candidates, but as soon as I heard the Bulgarian accent, I knew he was the one. I think there are probably at least a half dozen other victims, but Barlova was better able to dispose of their bodies than the two you found."

"How the hell did you know where the plumber worked? That was an unidentified body…"

Sherlock snorted. "I wanted to find the place where Barlova had done the actual murder before the body dump. There was always a chance that he wouldn't have had time to clean up the site and dispose of the weapon. I used the Google street scene on my phone to look down every road within a ten minute walk from where we found the body. The map data was only six months old, so would show a major construction site. Given the weight of the victim, and the lack of car tracks, he had to be carried there. Really, Lestrade, it's not beyond the wit of even someone like you to figure that sort of thing out."

"Sherlock, I'm not going to repeat what I will bet your brother was already told you. Your work on our cases does not involve chasing after suspects. You know that."

"I wasn't chasing a suspect, I was investigating a possible place where the murder might have taken place. I didn't know that the Bulgarian would still be there, trying to finish the plumber's work and clean up the blood at the same time."

"Why didn't you answer your phone or my texts?"

Sherlock looked sheepish. "I spent the last bit of battery life I had on the street level images. It died just after I spotted the Cuthbert Street flats being renovated."

Greg sighed. "That little oversight might just cost you the chance to work with us in the future, you know that, don't you?"

Now it was the young man's turn to sigh. "He can't do that to me. Mycroft just has to realise that if he tries to take away The Work, I will go stark, staring bonkers. The boredom alone would kill me."

Greg gave a rueful smile. "No one ever died of boredom, Sherlock. You nearly did by breaking the rules we had agreed about hot cases. You're going to have to spend a lot of time recovering. This won't be like putting a bandage on a cut; you've got months of physical therapy to get through, even after recovering from the surgery and the broken bones."

"Then you might as well tell Mycroft to reserve me a place at that psychiatric clinic again," he snapped. "I will not survive imprisonment if there is no hope of returning to cases. It's not the boredom, Lestrade, it's what the boredom drives me to that should worry Mycroft. He has to relent and let me return to The Work, or face the consequences."

Greg thought that through. _The way he says "The Work", you can tell that it's a capital letter; the only thing he lives for. _He remembered the last time Sherlock thought he had been barred from case work; that had ended badly on a rooftop in south London and an intentional overdose.

"You know, you remind me of Sam when you get quite so obsessive. Did I tell you that he has graduated from toy car models? Now he is becoming the world's expert in everything about Formula 1 sports cars, right down to the colour saturation of the metallic paints used by Ferrari and how they are different from those used by the Honda team cars."

Sherlock's frown softened a bit. "Then encourage him, Lestrade. High performance automotive engineering is a very respectable profession, and he would be admirably suited to it. Computer-aided component design doesn't need social niceties, just a sharp eye for detail and an enquiring mind; he has more than enough of both."

That made Greg smile. Sherlock always saw Sam's potential, whereas everyone else seemed to talk about deficits. It was one of the things that Greg liked about Sherlock. Unlike everyone else he routinely rubbished as being idiots, he never had a bad word to say about Sam.

"Lestrade, if you're going to keep daydreaming, you won't ever get the books packed before you have to leave to meet your wife at the dinner you are having at her sister's place."

That snide comment brought Greg's attention right back to the present. _How the hell did he figure that out? _

"… and if you don't finish, I will have to do some of the heavy lifting. Of course, I think I'm ready for that, even if the doctors don't."

greg resumed packing the books. "You're sure you're alright about moving flats?"

"Too late now, Lestrade; the van is due here tomorrow morning."

"This Baker Street place, isn't it a bit West End for you?"

"I know the landlady; worked a case for her four years ago, involving a murder in Florida. She has lowered the rent as a favour. I refuse to let Mycroft find me a flat. I mean look at this." He held up an odd looking pasta spoon. "If this is what one of his minions thought I needed when I moved in here, he obviously wasn't briefed well. Mycroft's idea of the perfect flat for me would probably have bars on the windows and an electronic lock that only he can open."

Greg sniggered at the image.

Sherlock continued. "You are not entirely without blame, I know. Of course, I could afford a one bedroom flat on my own, if a certain Detective Inspector I know hadn't stuck his nose in my business."

Greg grimaced. He didn't think that Sherlock knew it was his idea. Once the young man had left the clinic and came back here, much of the sensible regime went out of the window. He couldn't be bothered to eat and sleep to a normal schedule. He had resumed hazardous experiments, much to the landlord's and the other residents' disgust. Lestrade had tried to stop by as much as he could, but Louise was getting annoyed about his absences. He'd met with Mycroft to talk it over.

"Your brother is rather high maintenance. As much as I am delighted to see him back on his feet, he's getting a little demanding in what he expects me to do for him. And he keeps banging on about when he can return to crime scene work."

"Never, if I have my way." Mycroft had not quite forgiven the DI for what had happened, but neither had their conversations been quite as frosty as the exchanges during the night at the hospital.

Greg just smiled at the elder Holmes. "Both you and I know that you won't have 'your way'. Not entirely. He's probably the only one you don't have power over. It must drive you batty at times. Why not just skip the overbearing protective brother routine and move on straight to a negotiated cease fire?"

"You've just admitted that Sherlock isn't coping well on his own. So, why should that change?"

That comment made Greg stop and think. "He makes more of an effort when he's around someone he trusts. If I wasn't married and if I didn't have a life of my own, I could do more. But I can't. Louise quite rightly has first claim on my time when I'm not at work. What Sherlock needs more than anything is a friend who could move in, and share a flat with him."

Mycroft laughed. "A friend? Sherlock? Are we talking about the same person who is happy to describe himself as a sociopath?"

"Maybe that is stretching things a bit, but there are lots of single professional people in London who flat-share with people they don't know before moving in."

"Who on earth would agree to share a flat with my brother?

"With housing costs in London what they are, it wouldn't be impossible to find someone willing to share a two bed flat, someone who was acceptable to you and to Sherlock."

"A person would have to be certifiable to take him on."

"Maybe you're a little too out of touch to make that kind of judgment. People generally agree to share accommodation costs not out of love of living with other people, but because of necessity. You might find that it would be just the sort of thing that would remind Sherlock that he has to meet certain standards of behaviour. Maybe a place that has a resident landlord, too- someone who could remind him more regularly that he can't get away with crazy things- before it's too late and he's burnt the kitchen down again."

Greg thought about it further for a moment. "And, it would probably be better if he and his flatmate were the only tenants. Otherwise, a landlord would be more tempted to evict him if the other tenants complained about late night violin serenades."

Mycroft was looking at him with a curious look. "How do you know these things, Detective Inspector?"

"Well, I've rented flats in London all my adult life, unlike you. And I've been watching my nephew Sam grow up, been trying to talk to my sister about what kind of life he can manage when he is an adult. I don't want her to think that he is going to be with her forever; she has to let him go when the time is right."

"And how do you propose that I convince Sherlock about this new requirement to share his living arrangements?"

This time, Greg just laughed. "Oh, that doesn't take a Sherlock to figure out! Come on, Mycroft- he'll agree to it if you make it a condition of resuming his work on cases. You know that as well as I do."

Mycroft realised he'd just been outfoxed. Eyeing the Detective Inspector with a new respect, he knew that he had been backed into a corner that only a concession to Sherlock would allow him to escape. He sighed.

When it came to asking the question of his brother, Sherlock had taken only a matter of minutes to think it thorough. "Yes, of course. I have just the landlord in mind, a place on Baker Street. Mind you, I can't imagine anyone in their right mind wanting to share a flat with me, but I will try anything, Mycroft, just to get back to The Work."

So, three weeks later Greg found himself packing books and any heavy items, and hoping that this time Sherlock would be able to keep out of trouble.


	27. Chapter 27

**Author's Note: **This story seeks to explain a number of puzzling elements of the Study in Pink. In particular, why did Lestrade wait until FOUR serial suicide victims before getting Sherlock started? Greg goes into the press conference about the three victims, and Sherlock has to embarrass him by texting "wrong" to everyone. And then why was Sherlock quite so ecstatic about him coming to him when the fourth victim came to light? There is an interesting power play going on between the two men- provoked by Sherlock, who forces Lestrade into admitting that he "needs" Sherlock's help. And, as Sherlock had only JUST taken on the lease for Baker Street, how did Lestrade know where to find him? There was no doorbell rung, and Mrs Hudson was upstairs, so Lestrade just let himself in and came upstairs- so how/why did he have a key? As of last chapter, we now know just why Sherlock was looking for someone (ie John) to share a new two bed flat. And, given the last story, we might also have an idea why Mycroft got quite so protective- enough to interrogate John and to show up at the scene where Sherlock is talking to Lestrade and then John after the cabbie was shot. If these (and any other puzzling elements) have plagued your mind as much as mine, then accept this is an attempt to get the back story, explaining just why the first series opener took the plot line it did.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty Seven - 2010 A Third Party (Part One)**

* * *

Lestrade was beginning to really feel the heat of disapproval from his superiors. His Murder Investigation Team picked up the case after the second suicide. The local station's investigation of Sir Jeffrey Patterson's death had concluded suicide, over the protests of his widow. When the second suicide of the teenager, Jamey Phillimore, at a local leisure centre in south London, followed a little over a month later, using exactly the same MO, and involving the same poison cocktail, from an identical pill bottle to the one used in Patterson's case, the Homicide and Serious Crime division took over, and Lestrade's team got the case. They'd been plodding along, but every lead became a blind alley. Under normal circumstances Greg would have involved a certain consulting detective, but when Sherlock nearly got himself killed chasing a suspect at almost the same time as the first suicide, that wasn't possible.

Then last night, some eight weeks later, an MP who was also a Junior Transport Minister, took her own life in exactly the same way.

The Detective Chief Superintendent called him while he was at the crime scene.

"Make it quick, Lestrade. This one is attracting way too much publicity."

A Scotsman with a no-nonsense approach, the DCS admitted that his own superior, the Deputy Assistant Commissioner, was leaning on him, so he was in turn leaning on Lestrade. "Dead MPs just make for headlines we don't want to read, so work your usual magic."

The trouble was, as Greg well knew, his "magic" was still being kept off limits. Mycroft Holmes had laid down the law twelve weeks ago. The consulting detective would not be allowed to deal with any hot cases until he found a flatmate and finally moved into Baker Street- and then only if Mycroft approved. Despite signing the lease and moving the bulk of his belongings to Baker Street more than a week ago, Sherlock was not being allowed to take up residence until he found someone to share.

Caught between his personal concern for Sherlock and his need to do his job, Greg decided to call Mycroft from the crime scene. This time Mycroft answered- that female voice who usually filtered his calls must have gone off duty this late. He explained to Mycroft where he was and the who the latest victim was. "I really need his help on this one. So why can't he get started now?"

"No."

"Mycroft, for God's sake; it was an MP, a minister!"

Mycroft's reply was succinct: "I don't care, Lestrade. If Sherlock is allowed to move in on his own, he will find a hundred reasons to reject every candidate, and he'll then sit there happily in an expensive two bedroom flat, and we will back to square one. No cases until he moves in; no moving in until he finds a flatmate. And I would not complain, if I were you, Detective Inspector; after all, this was your idea in the first place, and you will just have to stick by it." The line went dead.

By the time he'd cleared the crime scene at the building site where Beth Davenport's body was found, it was nearly dawn. If Greg timed it right, he'd have just enough time to get home and have a shower. In the back seat of the squad car, he closed his eyes for a moment, but before he could enjoy the respite, his mobile vibrated with an incoming text message:

**7.15am Help, I'm being held hostage by a minor official of the British Government. Come to my rescue NOW SH**

Greg sighed. He called home to tell Louise that he would be going straight into the office, but there was no reply and her mobile was switched off. _Still asleep? Lucky her! _He stopped off at Montague Street, and let himself in. It was an unwritten rule of Greg's- as he had given Sherlock a key to his flat, so he had a key made for Sherlock's flat. "It's either me or your brother, Sherlock, which would you prefer?"

The living room looked oddly bare, missing Sherlock's usual clutter. The brunet was sitting on the sofa with a scowl on his face.

Greg wasn't in any mood for anything. "So, where are the handcuffs? I don't see any visible signs of you being held hostage. You shouldn't cry wolf, you know, Sherlock. Next time it actually happens, I might think you are just pulling my leg."

"Lestrade, I've just wasted the whole of yesterday in the most pointless exercise, all because my brother is being a pedantic git."

The DI had some sympathy, but not enough to let Sherlock know it. "Look, Sherlock, I'm in the middle of an investigation that has kept me up all night and I don't have time to hear your woes about how finding a flatmate is proving difficult." He rubbed his eyes wearily.

Sherlock fixed him a black coffee as he continued to rant. Greg learned all about how advertising led to telephone enquiries and then actually having to meet people, and show them around the flat. Sherlock loathed both processes.

"You know how much I hate this sort of thing, even if it's just one new person. But a whole day of it is enough to drive me mad!"

"You handle client calls OK, and those are people you don't know."

Sherlock glowered at him. "Clients mean cases; I can put up with anything if there are cases at the other end of it. But, this…exercise...is enough to drive even a normal person mad."

After Sherlock's ad went live at nine yesterday morning, he'd fielded twenty calls from potential flatmates, all but six of whom abandoned the idea after the initial phone call. Sherlock's "I don't know why they'd do that, but at least it stopped me form having to actually endure their company or show them the flat." Greg smirked. Sherlock then explained that he met up with the six, but rejected them as being "boring", "tedious", or "so stupid as to be a positive threat to humanity".

When Lestrade suggested that he might be over-exaggerating, Sherlock just carried on.

"Really, Lestrade- a Pilates instructor? An accountant from Walsall? A civil servant from the Treasury? Actually, I think the last one was a plant from Mycroft. It would be just like him to try to foist a spy on me."

"Well, Sherlock, you're not exactly the most user-friendly flatmate yourself. I mean who would want to share with someone who plays a violin all night? Or who thinks a kitchen is just a lab bench? And what about lying on the couch for hours on end staring off into space? You may have to adjust your expectations a little."

Sherlock huffed and then tried to change the subject. "Come on then, tell me the latest about the serial suicides. If you can talk to the media, you can talk to me about them."

"Who says I've been talking to the media?"

Sherlock threw the morning edition of the Evening Standard across the room at him. "Page three"

The headline jumped off the page at him, as did the photo of him, taken from the Met's website. "_Yard Stumped by Suicide Killer's Third Murder_". Greg sighed. "lovely, just what I need." He rubbed his eyes again.

"Let me help."

"The media aren't likely to get me fired. Your brother is, if I breach the terms of our agreement. Find yourself a flatmate and he just might let you get involved."

The younger man stalked off toward the window where he stood looking out. "This is a pointless standoff."

"Yeah, well I'm not too happy about it either, because I would appreciate a little help right now but I can't get you involved."

Sherlock turned and gave Lestrade a sly smile. "It would serve Mycroft right if I went out and got a drug dealer to flatshare. Then he'd have something real to worry about."

Greg crossed his arms. "No, Sherlock that isn't going to happen. You know as well as I do that the flatmate has to be acceptable to both you and your brother. Those were the terms of the deal."

Sherlock didn't answer, as Greg shouldered his coat back on. "I've got to get to the office, and grab a shower and a fresh shirt. We've got a press conference at nine, and a briefing with the Head of Communications before that. I am being leaned on from high places to get things done in a hurry. So, please, Sherlock, don't waste any more of my time, just get on with it, will you?" With that plea, he left.


	28. Chapter 28

**Author's note: ** I am indebted to Ariane Devere's Live Journal transcripts of the Study in Pink; obviously, the dialogue from the episode is the property of Moffat/Gatiss and Hartwood Films, as well as the BBC. I make no apology for including so much of the dailogue from the actual episode, as it is the backstory and the thinking from Lestrade's POV that I am trying to get at.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty Eight- 2010 A Third Party (Part Two)**

* * *

Nine o'clock came too quickly for Lestrade's taste. He was being pushed into doing the one thing he hated even more than telling relatives their loved ones had been murdered- a press conference, when there was nothing actually positive to relay to the press.

After all night on a crime scene and his fractious conversation with Sherlock, Greg was tired and cranky, so he let Donovan handle the preliminaries. Unlike him, she'd been off duty last night, and so was full of energy and enthusiasm. Unlike him, she loved press conferences as a chance to shine and draw attention to herself. _Give her a break, she has to make the most of every chance she gets._ He sighed, and tried to regain his sense of proportion. Over the years, he had worked hard to ensure she was given the opportunity when they came. And, to be honest, the media were generally nicer to a woman, and a black woman at that, so it wasn't exactly a hardship for him to let her share the limelight.

Camera's flashed as the two of them entered the conference room and sat down. Greg listened with one ear at what she was saying, whilst watching the assembled ranks of journalists in front of him. There was a live TV camera feed being taken at the back. He was uncomfortable at the thought.

But Donovan was in her element. "The body of Beth Davenport, Junior Minister for Transport, was found late last night on a building site in Greater London. Preliminary investigations suggest that this was suicide. We can confirm that this apparent suicide closely resembles those of Sir Jeffrey Patterson and James Phillimore. In the light of this, these incidents are now being treated as linked. The investigation is on-going but Detective Inspector Lestrade will take questions now."

Greg took a deep breath, as the first reporter called on asked how it was possible that suicides could actually be linked. He explained about the poison being the same in all three cases, and that the method was the same and that none of the people had given any prior indication of suicidal thoughts.

It didn't go down well with the reporter, who interrupted to ask how suicides could be linked. Greg just stuck to the line that he'd cleared with the Met's Head of Communications. A second reporter butted in to ask whether there was any link between the three people involved.

"There's no link been found yet, but we're looking for it. There has to be one."

Suddenly, mobile phones in the audience started going off like mad. For a split second, Lestrade wondered whether some catastrophe or disaster had occurred that meant every news desk wanted their journalists onto it. He thought of 9/11 and what might be happening right now in the real world outside.

But then he realised that Sally's and his phones had gone off, too, and she was showing him the single word text message:

"**WRONG!"  
**

Lestrade then wondered if somehow the person behind the suicides was taunting him. The same thought must have occurred to Sally, who said in a firm voice. "If you've all got texts, please ignore them."

One of the reporters looked puzzled and said out loud, "just says '**Wrong!**'"

Donovan was determined to keep control of the situation, so she reiterated her point: "Yeah, well just ignore that. Okay, if there are no more questions for Detective Inspector Lestrade, I'm going to bring this session to an end." Greg agreed with that tactic; he'd been thrown a bit by the simultaneous text messages.

One of the reporters refused to be put off. "But, if they're suicides, what are you investigating?"

Worried about that question leading to the same sort of headline that the Standard had this morning, he tried to close this line of enquiry down. "As I say, these …these suicides are _clearly _linked. Um, it's an…it's an unusual situation." Then he decided to end it with the line that the Head of Communications pressed him to use. "We've got our best people investigating…"

But before he could finish the sentence, everyone's phone went off again. That same bloody reporter who had started the questioning now said it again. "Says '**Wrong!**' again."

Greg looked despairingly at Donovan, who tried to reassert control again. "One more question."

A reporter who had not spoken yet asked, "Is there any chance that these are murders, and if they are, is this the work of a serial killer?"

Lestrade lost it a bit. "I know that you like writing about these, but these do appear to be suicides. We know the difference. The poison was clearly self-administered." Greg was determiined to squash this murder story, as the Medical examiner and the Forensic teams on all three murders were adamant about suicide.

The reporter wasn't satisfied, and before Sally could get a word in, he asked "Yes, but if they are murders, how do people keep themselves safe?"

That threw Lestrade; it wasn't a question they'd rehearsed, and the reporter was being a twit. He just answered honestly. "Well, don't commit suicide."

Sally murmured quietly "Daily Mail", as if warning him, _be careful. _

Lestrade tried to explain, so that his earlier remark wouldn't sound too glib. _Be respectful_, the Head of Communications had urged him. He imagined what Louise would be saying, as a PR professional. No doubt, he'd get a lecture from her tonight. So Greg tried, "Obviously, this is a frightening time for people, but all anybody has to do is exercise reasonable precautions. We are all as safe as we want to be."

Again, the phones went off, but this time the same message "**Wrong!"** wasn't appearing on his phone. A few seconds later, a text message comes into Greg's phone and he read it.

**You know where to find me. SH**

With an annoyed look, Greg stood up and said "Thank you" and walked out with Sally trailing behind. In the privacy of the corridor on the way to his office, she exploded.

"You've _got_ to stop him doing that; he's making us look like idiots." She was livid, now that she knew it was Sherlock Holmes who had disrupted her moment on the public stage.

Greg gave her a resigned look. "Well, if you can tell me _how_ he does it, I'll stop him."

By the time he got into his office and shut the door, he'd reassessed his initial exasperation. While personally embarrassing to him and Donovan, Sherlock's intervention would not have been missed by a certain British Government official. Ramping up the public pressure for a solution, and being clear that he would help if he could, was Sherlock's way of throwing a gauntlet down in front of his brother.

_It just might work._ Greg hoped so, because he was totally lost. Having declared to the world that the three cases must be linked, he had absolutely no idea of even where to begin trying to find that link.


	29. Chapter 29

**Author's note:** once again I am indebted to Ariane Devere's Live Journal transcripts of the Study in Pink; obviously, the dialogue from the episode is the property of Moffat/Gatiss and Hartwood Films, as well as the BBC. I make no apologies for including the canon dialogue- I am hoping, however, that you will appreciate the back story behind the dialogue and how it links up with the past stories. As ever in this story line, it is seen from Greg Lestrade's point of view.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty Nine- 2010 A Third Party (Part Three)**

* * *

Two days later, Greg got the lucky break he was praying for. Sally was explaining how the team was pulling together data about how the poison pills were made, and that they were now contacting every pharmaceutical company they could find to get their client lists.

"That will take ages to collate- and our murderer could be getting the stuff anywhere- outside of London or even overseas." He tried to keep his scepticism down; he didn't like discouraging initiative, especially when he wasn't coming up with investigation ideas of his own.

It was so frustrating. None of the other lines of enquiry led anywhere. The pill bottles were the sort that travellers used to deal with airline regulations. Literally dozens of different manufacturers and thousands of outlets world-wide. The four victims had never met, shared no common contacts, had no characteristics in common. There was nothing to draw together a banker, a teenager and an MP. They were born in different places in the UK, lived in different parts of London, had no common activities. It was utterly baffling. Yet, at the same time, Lestrade knew that there _had_ to be a link.

The medical examiners were adamant. It was the same poison, made up into pills. Not a common one, this was tailor-made by someone who knew his stuff. Yet, all three of the lethal ingredients were actually easy to source, however, so it would not be simple to find someone who had bought all three and knew how to put them together. The bodies showed no signs of duress- no ligature marks, no bruising, nothing to suggest that they had been forced against their will to take the pills. Yet, none of the forensic teams had managed to find a suicide note- not with the bodies, or on any e mails, letters or texts to loved ones.

He could hear that snide comment echoing in the back of his mind. _You observe, but you do not see, Lestrade. _ He stood in front of the evidence whiteboard with his arms crossed and a scowl on his face. _Yea, Sherlock, but what is it that I am not getting here, apart from the obvious link that they've all taken their own life the same exact way?_

As if his thoughts had been read, his mobile went off- incoming text message.

**12.45 Flatmate nearly secured. Meeting him at Baker Street at 7pm. How's the investigation going? SH**

Greg breathed a sigh of relief. If Mycroft agreed, then he might just get that magic back to work, and not a moment too soon. The Chief Super had not been impressed with Lestrade's handling of the press; headlines ran one of two directions, either criticising the Yard for not having a clue, or talking about the mystery texter, and wondering if it was a serial murderer playing with them.

The team was steadily chewing its way through the phone calls, when news came in from the Brixton police station- another body had been found at Lauriston Gardens.

After an hour at the scene, the DI was really at a loss- the body of Jennifer Wilson had been found by some kids who'd broken into a flat that was undergoing a complete refurbishment. The tell-tale pill bottle beside her, she had been dead for some hours. Unlike the previous occasions, which had seen weeks between the murders, this was the second within two days. Clear escalation- and that was something typical of serial murders. Once the oxygen of publicity hit, as it had with the MP's death, the psychopath would be excited enough to try again much more quickly.

The Forensic Team assigned to the case was run by CSE Anderson, and he was the one who pointed out the scratched floorboard, with the letters _RACHE_ and the body's damaged nails. "A note? Maybe this one took longer to react to the poison and had time to scratch this word out."

Greg stood up and pinched the bridge of his nose. He needed Sherlock. He walked back onto the landing outside the room and called Mycroft's number. Once again, a female voice answered.

"Detective Inspector, how may I help?"

"I need to talk to Mr Holmes right now."

"Mr Holmes is in a meeting that cannot be interrupted at the moment, but I will pass on a message."

Greg decided he could risk it, especially if Mycroft's attention was momentarily elsewhere.

"You can tell Mr Holmes that his brother is meeting his new flatmate at Baker Street in…" he checked his watch "less than an hour. I need Sherlock's help NOW. There's been another murder and I need his eyes on this crime scene without further delay. So, tell him that I intend getting Sherlock involved. He can vet this guy later."

oOo

The squad car slammed on its brakes outside 221b Baker Street, and Lestrade sprang out, dragging the key from his pocket. He'd had it made when he helped Sherlock move the books and heavy boxes into the flat, part of their reciprocal arrangement."If you can walk into my flat anytiime, I can with yours. You know the rules," he'd explained to Sherlock. He came up the stairs and saw the tall brunet standing in front of the window, with an expectant look.

"Where?" There was electicity in that look he gave Lestrade- a half breathed, but unsaid, _at last!_

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens." He didn't need to say more; Sherlock would know that this meant he was able to start work, that either Mycroft had agreed, or Lestrade had decided enough was enough.

"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different." He could hardly keep his excitment contained.

Greg stepped into the room but kept his eyes fixed on Sherlock. "You know how they never leave notes?"

"Yeah."

"This one did...Will you come?"

Sherlock didn't even question whether Mycroft had agreed. It didn't matter. He had his new flatmate actually sitting in Baker Street, so was free to say yes. But, he could see Lestrade's eagerness and decided, cruelly, to play it out a bit. It was only fair. The detective inspector who had willingly accommodated Mycroft's rules, and even contributed to them. Suddenly, now that he knew he'd won, he wanted to tell Lestrade just how much it had cost him to wait these twelve weeks. So, he cooly asked,"Who's on forensics?"

"It's Anderson."

Sherlock grimaced. "Anderson won't work with me."

"Well, he won't be your assistant." Greg's evident sarcasm showed how much his frustration had grown over the years with how Sherlock abused and ordered around the Forensic teams. He sensed the undercurrent from the young man, and wasn't about to let him come back and lord it over his team._ Behave, Sherlock!_

Sherlock just blurted out, "I _need_ an assistant."

Greg decided to ignore that. "Will you come?" He didn't hide his impatience with the tall brunet. Sherlock had been whining for weeks about getting back onto cases; the DI knew that he'd accept the work.

Sherlock then nodded. "Not in a police car. I'll be right behind."

With a sigh of relief, Greg just said "Thank you." Then he looked around at the other two people in the room. The older woman, Mrs Hudson, he'd met before, when he and Sherlock were moving the boxes in.

The bloke sitting in the arm chair he assumed was the new flatmate. Greg was glad to see that the person actually existed. He wouldn't put it past Sherlock to invent an imaginary flatmate in his eagerness to get involved. But, as no call or text had been received from Mycroft to stop Greg, he was prepared to get Sherlock working on the cases unless advised otherwise. The DI didn't have time for introductions, so he just turned and rushed back down the stairs.

He hadn't reached the front door, however, when he heard a triumphant baritone voice shout out, "Brilliant! Yes! Ah, four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it's Christmas!" With a wry smile that accompanied him back into the police car, Greg couldn't agree more. _Welcome back to case work, Sherlock!_


	30. Chapter 30

**Author's note: ** Once again, I am indebted to Ariane Devere's Live Journal transcripts of the Study in Pink; obviously, the dialogue from the episode is the property of Moffat/Gatiss and Hartwood Films, as well as the BBC. This chapter inevitably relies almost entirely on the script for dialogue, but I hope adds value from the insight into Greg's thinking.

* * *

**Chapter Thirty - 2010 A Third Party (Part Four)**

* * *

Greg managed to get back to the crime scene in Brixton before Sherlock. The police car had advantages over a taxi; sirens and lights allowed him to cross intersections. He'd never understood why Sherlock wouldn't accept the offer of a lift in one of the cars. Maybe it was bad associations with previous arrests and his times living homeless on the streets.

He was half way into his Forensic coverall again when the consulting detective strode in, clad in his usual long coat and blue scarf. The young man could scarcely contain the grin on his face. Behind him trailed a man Lestrade recognised – the bloke who had been sitting in the chair at Baker Street. He was slightly taken aback; why would Sherlock bring a potential flatmate with him to a crime scene?

He watched as Sherlock pointed to a pile of blue suits and told the man to put one on.

"Who's this?" Greg asked Sherlock; if he was going to bring the guy along, he could at least introduce him.

Sherlock just replied enigmatically as he stripped off his leather gloves, "He's with me." He reached for the box of sterile latex gloves.

That wasn't good enough for Greg. He would get enough grief from the team having Sherlock there after a three month break; a stranger would be doubly unwelcome. "But, who _is _he?"

Sherlock snapped back, "I _said_, he's with me." He glared at the DI. In other words, back off.

As he put on a pair of white cotton overshoes, Lestrade looked at the flatmate properly for the first time. Older than Sherlock, by about five or six years? Ash blonde hair cut short. For a moment, Greg wondered whether Sherlock would have been daft enough to carry through with this threat to find a drug dealer to share. But the man in front of him now just didn't look the part. No prison tats, no macho way of standing. That's when Greg noticed the cane, which threw him a little. Other than that, the guy looked remarkably ordinary. The DI saw him take off his jacket and pick up a blue coverall, stepping into it. The man asked Sherlock mildly, "Aren't you going to put one on?"

The accent wasn't London, but not particularly northern either. Somewhere in the Home Counties, most likely. Lestrade was puzzled, Where the hell would Sherlock have run across someone so… normal? And why on earth would a normal person agree to share a flat with someone like Sherlock? No, re-phrase that, he told himself, why would an ordinary person who just signed up to share a flat be willing to come with his new acquaintance to _a crime scene?_ Just who was this guy?

Sherlock just looked at the shorter man after the question about the forensic coverall. It brought back a memory for Greg, of the time three years ago when at a crime scene he'd looked around for Sherlock, and realised he was missing. When he eventually found him in an empty room away from the crime scene, Sherlock was curled up in a ball, gasping for breath in the early stages of a panic attack, with the torn shreds of his blue forensic coverall lying in the middle of the room. Greg had taken one look and realised that somehow Sherlock had just gone through a melt-down all on his own. When he finally managed to get the consultant detective able to talk again, he was told in no uncertain terms that he would never, ever wear "that thing" again. The smell of the plastic fabric, the feel of it against his skin, the sound it made every time he moved was just "too much to take, no matter how important it is to the work." Lestrade had found a way around it, getting the Forensic officers to take a sample of just about everything Sherlock wore, his hair, skin and DNA so it could be ruled out in future investigations. If it was further evidence that he was willing to bend rules to accommodate that brain, then his team were told just to shut up and take it.

So, when Sherlock did not explain to his flatmate why he wasn't wearing one of the forensic suits, Greg knew he was not ready to reveal so much about himself. The shorter guy just shook his head as if slightly puzzled, and carried on slipping on the white shoe covers that Greg had, and then looked at Sherlock's uncovered shoes, with slight amusement.

Sherlock asked Greg, "So, where are we?"

Greg picked up a pair of gloves himself. "Upstairs." He led the way up two flights of the staircase. He said over his shoulder, "I can give you two minutes."

Sherlock replied casually, "May need longer."

Greg explained as they reached the landing, "Her name's Jennifer Wilson, according to her credit cards. We're running them now for contact details. Hasn't been here long. Some kids found her."

Greg led them into the room, and watched as Sherlock saw the body for the first time. The lanky brunet held out a hand in front of himself as he focused on the corpse. Greg had seen him do this before- it was a sort of measuring tool that the consulting detective used to deduce approximate height and a way of fixing the image of the corpse in that photographic mind of his.

Because Greg was keeping his eye on Sherlock, he didn't see the look of pain and sadness cross the flatmate's face as he looked at the woman on the floor. The three men stood silently for a few moments, lost in their own thoughts.

"Shut up." Sherlock sounded impatient.

Lestrade reacted defensively, startled. "I didn't say anything." You would have thought after years of working with Sherlock, he'd know better, but the twelve week gap meant he'd sort of forgotten just how rude Sherlock could be when he was at a scene.

"You were thinking; it's annoying."

Greg looked at the flatmate. While he was routinely used to getting this sort of abuse from Sherlock, he found himself worrying about what the still unnamed man would think. The bloke looked amused.

Sherlock walked forward and examined the scratched letters on the floor and the broken nails. Then he squatted down and ran his gloved fingers along the back of her coat, lifting them to look at what he found. He reached into her pocket and pulled a white folding umbrella out and then ran his finger along its furls before looking at the finger again. He moved up to the collar of her coat and repeated the process. Then the brunet pulled out his small magnifier, clicked it open and examined her jewellery – a bracelet, an earring and necklace, then her rings on her left hand. He pulled off the wedding ring and examined the inside. The whole process took less than a minute.

When he saw Sherlock smile, Lestrade knew it was safe to interrupt. "Got anything?"

A nonchalant "Not much" is uttered as Sherlock stood and took his gloves off. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and began keying something into it.

Anderson was standing in the doorway now, eyeing Sherlock suspiciously. "She's German. 'Rache'- it's German for revenge. She could be trying to tell us something."

Sherlock walked quickly toward the door and began to close it, as he said sarcastically "Yes, thank you for your input" before shutting it in the Crime Scene Examiner's face.

Greg looked puzzled. "So, she's German?"

Sherlock snorted. "Of course, she's not. She's from out of town, though. Intended to stay in London for one night….before returning to Cardiff." He was looking at his phone with a smile. "So far, so obvious."

The man standing beside Lestrade spoke for the first time since coming in the room. "Sorry- obvious?" His incredulity was evident.

Greg ignored him. "What about the message, though?"

The DI was surprised when Sherlock did not respond to his question, but rather looked at the man standing next to him.

"Doctor Watson, what do you think?"

"Of the message?"

"Of the body. You're a medical man."

It was Greg's turn to be puzzled. Was Sherlock actually asking this guy, this _stranger_, to get involved in the forensic work? That was ridiculous. "Wait, no, we have a whole team outside."

"They won't work with me."

He was used to this sort of prima donna attitude from Sherlock, but this time Greg decided to put his foot down. "I'm breaking every rule letting _you_ in here." The clear implication was that he didn't want this flatmate, this…doctor involved in the crime scene, but there was also the unspoken fact that both men knew- Mycroft Holmes had not yet signed off on Sherlock working on cases again, and Greg was risking a lot breaking that rule.

Sherlock's answer was brutally honest. "Because you _need_ me." Behind that tense statement was the past twelve weeks of frustration at being kept off cases.

Greg locked eyes with the consulting detective for a tense moment, and then lowered his gaze. "Yes, I do. God help me." It was an admission that whatever Sherlock was playing at by having his flatmate with him on the crime scene, Lestrade was going to put up with it.

Sherlock called out to the man, who was looking at the body. "Doctor Watson?"

The man looked up first at Sherlock but then turned his gaze toward Lestrade, seeking permission there.

_A doctor? What sort of doctor?_ But Greg saw the impatience on Sherlock's face, so he conceded defeat. With irritation, he just said, "Oh, do as he says. Help yourself." Annoyed he stalked over to the door, opened it and left the room, calling out on the landing, "Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes."

When Greg returned, the doctor was down, kneeling beside the body. He put his head down close to the woman's head and sniffed, then lifted a hand and looked at her skin. "Yeah, asphyxiation, probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can't smell any alcohol on her. Could have been a seizure; possibly drugs."

Sherlock was watching the doctor, really watching him. Greg realised he was deducing something about the doctor. "You know what it was. You've read the papers." Sherlock prompted.

"What, she's one of the suicides- the fourth?

_He's using this crime scene to figure out something about this new flatmate. _Greg decided to butt in. Sherlock could play his mind games on his new flatmate on his own time; Lestrade had a crime scene to run. "Sherlock. Two minutes, I said. I need anything you've got."

Sherlock stood up and rattled off the most amazing series of deductions Greg had heard him utter at a crime scene for the past five years. Maybe because he'd been stifled for almost three months, this time the stuff just poured out of him. Not only her occupation, where she was from (Cardiff) and the fact that she had come for London for only one night, but also the state of her married life, her series of lovers and the fact that her roll-on overnight suitcase was missing. At one point Greg just interjected "Oh, for God's sake if you're just making this up…" which sent Sherlock off onto another frenzied bout of deduction delivered at blistering speed. The flatmate just looked astonished, and he said so- "That's brilliant" when Sherlock explained how he deduced her adultery by the dirt on her ring's outer surface combined with a clean inside. Greg questioned how the detective had figured out Cardiff, and got a detailed description of weather conditions in London compared to South Wales and the moisture on Jennifer Wilson's coat, collar and umbrella, combined with wind speeds and time of travel, ending with Sherlock's phone being thrust in his face with the Cardiff weather report.

When the doctor was stunned into an amazed "That's fantastic!" Greg watched Sherlock's reaction. The brunet just turned to look at the shorter man and said quietly, "You know you do that out loud?" That provoked a sheepish "Sorry, I'll shut up" from the doctor. What amazed Greg more was Sherlock's reply," No, its…fine." That's when Greg realised that part of the deduction frenzy had been designed to impress the new flatmate. Sherlock was actually showing off. _Wow, I've never seen him care enough about what someone thought to do that- not even me!_

All that said, Lestrade couldn't ignore the one glaring problem. "Why do you keep saying 'suitcase'? That led to a heated exchange, where Sherlock showed splash marks on the tights of the murdered woman and asked again what had been done with the case, as he needed a phone or organiser to find out who Rachel was.

When Greg pointed out that no case had been found, Sherlock's reaction was immediate. "Say that again."

Greg frowned. Sherlock never needed things repeated, but he complied. "There wasn't a case. There was never any suitcase."

Sherlock was out the door and shouting to the police officers in the house as he started down the stairs. "Suitcase, did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in the house?"

Greg leaned over the bannister to shout, "Sherlock, there was no case!" The doctor joined him to look down the stairs at Sherlock, who was now almost muttering to himself, "but they take the poison themselves; they chew, swallow the pills themselves, There are clear signs, even you lot couldn't miss them." He had that far-off expression on his face that he had when he was re-visualising all the evidence in his mind.

That muttering drew annoyed glances from the other officers on the scene, who were watching Sherlock. Then he stated in a categorical tone, "It's murder, all of them. I don't know how, but they're not suicides; they're killings- _serial_ killings."

When he stopped on the step, he held his hands up in front of his face and said with delight, "We've got ourselves a serial killer. I _love_ those, there's always something to look forward to!"

Both Lestrade and the Doctor peered over the bannister at Sherlock. The doctor's face betrayed his slight dismay at Sherlock's exuberant delight at the prospect of such a gruesome concept as a serial killer; Greg's reaction was a more knowing affection. _He's finally back where he belongs!_


	31. Chapter 31

**Author's Note:** I have had a review complaining that "they are reading the show"- ok- ...I get what you are saying...but bear with me. The point of this is to establish Greg's POV on the arrival of John. The next two chapters finish SiP and establish relationships with Sherlock, John and Mycroft that will be needed for the next set of stories- the sequel to Collateral Damage and Sidelines, which is called Level Up. After that, there will also be case fic with Greg and Sherlock set somewhere in the post series one period. And there will be a Sam-centered story too, due to popular request. So hang in there. If you don't want to bother with the iconic canon pieces with added insight and links to back story, then skip ahead a couple of chapters.

* * *

**Chapter Thirty One- 2010 A Third Party (Part Five)**

* * *

Watching Sherlock come to grips with the body at Lauriston Gardens, Detective Inspector Lestrade was enjoying every moment. But, as ever, he was struggling to keep up with the consulting detective's train of thought. If Greg was going to control Sherlock, he needed to slow him down long enough to keep the others of the team on side. After three months without Sherlock, the team would be resentful if he ignored them as he used to do. Worse still, in the back of Greg's mind was the worry that Mycroft Holmes had not officially signed off on Sherlock getting back to work, so it was crucial for the DI to keep Sherlock's natural enthusiasm under tight control. The worst case scenario would see Sherlock haring off on his own again, and coming to grief. If that happened on his first hot case for months, Lestrade just knew that Mycroft would pull the plug.

So, he tried to slow the pace down. Leaning over the bannister, he called down to Sherlock, "Why are you saying that?"

That made Sherlock turn and snap at him. "Her case! Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it?" He was exasperated. "Someone else was here, and they took her case." He turned away and muttered to himself, "So the killer must have driven her here; forgot the case was in the car."

The Doctor standing beside Lestrade called down to Sherlock. "She could have checked into a hotel; left her case there."

Sherlock frowned, rejecting the idea outright. "No, she never got to the hotel. Look at her hair. She colour-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She'd never have left a hotel with her hair still looking…" He stopped in mid-flow, coming to a realisation. Greg heard the inevitable "Oh" with a smile.

Even from where he was standing, he could see Sherlock's eyes widen and his face light up. An even bigger "OH!" escaped, and then as if he could not contain himself, he even clapped his hands together in delight.

The flatmate was startled by the behaviour. "Sherlock?"

Greg knew more about what the process meant, so he leaned over the railing and called out "What is it, what?"

Sherlock was still in the afterglow of discovery. "Serial killers are always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake."

Greg grimaced. If he thought that his superiors were applying pressure after three, what would happen when news of the fourth became known? He shuddered to think. There was no way they could wait for a Fifth. "We can't just wait!"

Sherlock's answer was aimed at reassuring Greg. "Oh, we're _done_ waiting." He started down the stairs at speed, calling back over his shoulder. "Look at her, _really_ look! Houston, we have a mistake. Get onto Cardiff; find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!"

Greg had already planned all of that. "Of course, yeah, but what mistake?" He was confused by what Sherlock obviously thought he had gotten, but he didn't have a clue, and now Sherlock was half way out of the front door when he heard Greg's query. The DI heard him rush back in, come up a couple of stairs so he could see Greg and just shout "PINK!" before rushing out at speed again.

Greg stood back, baffled by the word, and then without looking at the doctor standing beside him, he turned back into the room to really look at the body again, to see if he could figure out what on earth Sherlock meant. Behind him, he could hear Anderson hurrying up the stairs with the team, saying "Let's get on with it."

As Sherlock bolted out of the front door, he was already running by the time he ducked under the police tape. Sally Donovan watched him go. Before he'd even turned up, Lestrade had asked her to do the usual "Sherlock watch", keeping up with him if he bolted the crime scene to provide back up. "It's even more important this time, Donovan; it's his first case back and I don't want anything to go wrong, so I'm asking you personally to take it on, rather than delegate it to a PC." _This time, Freak, I'm not going to do it. After what you said to me and Don, you've just pushed me too far. What I do in my private life is nothing to do with you, and embarrassing me in public like that is just way out of line. _ If Lestrade gave her grief about it, she'd just say Sherlock was too quick for her, and she'd lost him.

A couple of minutes later, the guy that Sherlock had introduced to her as his "colleague" came out, obviously looking for Sherlock. She smirked. He had a lot to learn, and she was happy to dish the dirt. She walked up to him and started talking.

She'd just finished explaining that Holmes was a psychopath and that psychopaths get bored, when Lestrade came out of the front door, saw her and shouted for her to come over. She warned the bloke to stay away from Sherlock, and then headed back for what she knew would be a serious ear bashing from her DI. _Tough. I'd rather that than be that nutter's babysitter._


	32. Chapter 32

**Chapter Thirty Two- 2010 A Third Party (Part Six)**

* * *

Greg's fury at Sally Donovan was still chilling the air when she and the DI headed back to New Scotland Yard. The silence in the back of the police car made it clear to her that if anything happened to Sherlock, Lestrade would never forgive her, and would certainly write up a formal reprimand that would effectively stall her career. He trusted his team to follow his orders, no matter what their own agendas. He had just looked at her after her explanation, and said tersely, "respect the chain of command, Detective Sergeant Donovan, whatever your personal feelings are."

The Forensic team would still be hours at the scene, processing all that data, but Lestrade wanted to get to work as quickly as possible on Jennifer Wilson. So, he told Donovan in no uncertain terms what he wanted her to do, and how fast he expected it done. "You'll do it yourself, Detective Sergeant, and that's an order, just so there is no _misunderstanding_. I want chapter and verse on Wilson- friends, family, why she was in London, where she was going, who she was planning on seeing. And I want it NOW." His tone was more direct and annoyed than she had ever heard it.

Back in his office, he paced. Should he contact Mycroft and see whether his team or SO6 had eyes on Sherlock? At least, he didn't think that Sherlock would be consciously trying to avoid cameras this time. The consulting detective had no reason to assume that he was in any trouble. It had been Lestrade's choice to get him involved in the case. Greg just hoped to God that nothing happened to Sherlock on his investigations into whatever the hell he meant when he shouted the word "PINK!" He scowled. It was such a horrible colour; he'd always loathed it. A stray memory surfaced of his early childhood, when everything he owned seemed to be a pink hand-me-down from his older sister Carole.

His patience snapped. He texted Sherlock.

**Where the HELL are you? GL**

The reply came back almost immediately.

**Chasing down PINK. Relax SH**

Well, at least his battery had not failed this time.

**What does pink have to do with "mistake"? GL**

**What's it like being so dim? **_**LOOK**_**! SH**

Greg switched on caps lock, and texted

**BE CAREFUL, YOU IDIOT! GL**

**Yes, mother. SH**

That made Greg chuckle. If there was any comfort to be taken from the situation it was that Sherlock was probably just as keen to avoid a problem as he was; the prospect of another enforced exclusion from case work would be just too horrible for him to contemplate. Or at least, Greg hoped so.

He went back into the incident room and watched the team posting up the evidence that they had collected from the latest suicide. He stood with his arms crossed, looking at each piece as it was put up. What was it about this latest incident, what was he supposed to _look_ at? What had Sherlock seen that was a mistake by the killer? Why did he fixate so on this mythical suitcase? And what the hell did all of this have to do with the colour pink?

He was still standing there almost ninety minutes later when his phone went off. He grabbed it, hoping it was Sherlock, but the caller ID came up as Mycroft Holmes. He walked into his office with a sense of dread, and took the call.

"Good evening, Detective Inspector". The tone was neutral, and Greg found himself relaxing a tiny bit. At least he had not yet been threatened with being dragged off to the dungeons.

"I have taken the opportunity of meeting with Doctor Watson, as you suggested. And, to my surprise, he passes muster. His presence at the crime scene was noticed. Is he a recommendation of yours, Lestrade?"

"Not at all; don't know the guy from Adam. And Sherlock wasn't exactly forthcoming about how he found him, or, in fact, anything at all. Didn't introduce him, or even tell me his first name, just Watson and that he's a doctor."

"Interesting."

Yeah, it was, when Greg thought about it. "Did you learn anything more about the guy?"

"Of course, Detective Inspector, but then I have resources that you can only dream about. Remarkably, my brother may have managed to find someone acceptable, probably completely by mistake. We will see how long he lasts. Any normal person will crumble in a matter of days living in close proximity to Sherlock."

Greg got a bit annoyed at that. "We'll see. He seemed a sane enough bloke. And he wasn't freaked by Sherlock's work or the crime scene, so that's one potential landmine safely negotiated."

"Do keep better tabs on my brother, won't you? He still has a tendency to disappear off in pursuit of the odd clue."

Damn, Mycroft had seen that. "Yeah, well, there was a bit of miscommunication. Won't happen again, I promise."

"Do give my regards to Detective Sergeant Donovan. I have decided to take a special interest in her career. Perhaps some equality and diversity training might not go amiss." _Ouch, better warn her not to make an enemy of Mycroft Holmes; that's a career limiting strategy!_

Greg decided the best tactic was to bluff him out. "Still playing the overprotective big brother role, Mycroft? I can assure you that Sherlock gives as good as he gets."

"Perhaps, Lestrade. But, the lack of proper back up has cost Sherlock the last three months of his life, so I do hope it won't be a regular feature of his work with you from now on."

"It won't be."

"Good night, Detective Inspector."

Greg heaved a sigh of relief. That's one of the Holmes brothers dealt with. Now if only he knew what was going on with the younger one, his night would be made.

He texted Sherlock again.

**BB is officially OK with this. Need you to update GL**

**Shut up. Back at flat THINKING SH**

Greg knew from experience that when Sherlock needed to think without interruption, he preferred to be horizontal, and with the minimum of distraction. But, by "flat" did Sherlock mean Montague Street or Baker Street? Greg bet it would be the former. Just how comfortable would he be with unfamiliar surroundings? Normally, when he wanted to think, he would retreat to a sofa, close his eyes and try to limit all the other sensory data. Sherlock did his best thinking In a shut-down mode.

If he was "thinking", then he must have found or not found whatever he was looking for when he bolted out of Lauriston Gardens. _Wonder if that bugger has figured out that there really is a case? _ Greg came out of his office and bellowed for Donovan. "I want you to check out left luggage at Paddington Station. See if anyone answering Jennifer Wilson's description left an overnight case there- and whether Sherlock has been there, too."

He decided that texting wasn't good enough- he figured that Serhlock would now just not reply, or worse, have turned his phone off. He decided to go to Montague Street and force Sherlock to tell him what the hell he was supposed to have seen. Better to be called an idiot than to miss anything important in the investigation.

oOo

Unfortunately for Lestrade, Montague Street turned up empty- and no sign that Sherlock had been there for some time, as there was still post on the floor, untouched. He texted again

**Are you at Baker Street? GL**

There was no reply. That annoyed Greg. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more irritated he got. The squad car waiting outside on Montague Street delivered him to Baker Street and he told the PC to head back to the Yard. He unlocked the front door, and went up the stairs, and was nearly half way up when he heard Mrs Hudson call out.

"Oh, Inspector, the boys have gone out again. In and out, they've certainly been busy tonight!"

He paused and looked down. "I don't suppose you know where they were going?"

"Oh, I couldn't say; you know young men, they wouldn't confide in me. But, Sherlock was certainly happy. I mean earlier this evening it was all he could do to contain himself, shouting 'the Game is on', like some sort of over-excited teenager with his xbox." She frowned a little. "I mean, it's wonderful to see him so happy again; he's been a bit down lately, but is it right to be quite so happy about a series of suicides? " She looked a little flustered, as if her loyalties were slightly at odds with social niceties.

He gave her a reassuring smile. "Mrs Hudson, I know he has an unusual taste in case work, but if he is pleased to be back at work, then I think we can both be happy for him. That said, I'm going to wait here for him." He headed up another step and then stopped. "Did I hear you correctly- was the flatmate with him when they went out again?"

"Oh yes, Doctor Watson! He's just perfect, isn't he? I am so glad that Sherlock found someone suitable."

Greg was curious. "Did Sherlock say where he met him or what his background is?"

"Well, I won't have just _anyone_ as a tenant; I hope you know I have standards, Inspector. When I asked, Sherlock told me that Doctor Watson is a former military man, invalided home from Afghanistan. That's why he has the cane. From what I've seen of him, he seems a really nice man."

"Thanks, Mrs Hudson, I'll just make myself at home and wait for them to return."

She smiled and went back to her own flat, as Greg let himself in and walked into the chaos of half unpacked stuff of Sherlock's. He looked around to see what progress had been made, and that's when he saw the case. The pink case. Sitting on its own, in front of the fire. Unzipped. Crucial evidence in the case, and just left there. No phone call to Lestrade that it had been recovered. Yet another example of Sherlock trying to play by his own bloody rules, and ignoring all the police protocols that would be needed to photograph and document where it was found, and process the place for trace evidence. _He thinks he's so bloody clever! _Lestrade saw red.

If Sherlock had been in the room, he'd have probably handcuffed the idiot and dragged him down to spend a night in a cell to consider the stupidity of what he had just done. By compromising the evidence in this way, Sherlock might have jeopardised anything that they could find in the case or about the suitcase case that could be used in evidence- which could let a serial murderer walk free. What it would do to Lestrade's career if this happened was too scary to think about right now.

Equally distressing to Greg, however, was the fact that Sherlock had obviously found something in the case that had led him back out onto the streets of London, in pursuit of the murderer- without telling Greg what the hell he was doing and where he was going. Not only did he have no proper backup, _yet again_; if Mrs Hudson was to be believed, he had dragged along his flatmate, an innocent civilian, along for the ride- and the risk. He put his hand to his forehead, closed his eyes and sighed in despair.

oOo

It took Lestrade almost a half hour to calm down, and think clearly through what action he could take. If he contacted Mycroft and told him the truth, it was likely that Sherlock would never be allowed to touch another case again. If he told his superiors about it, then Sherlock would never be allowed to work with the Yard again. But, if Sherlock was allowed to get away with it, he'd never respect any rules set by the DI again. Something had to be done, and Greg had to figure a way out of this mess.

A call was made to Sally Donovan, and he explained what he wanted and where he wanted it. She could not contain her "I told you so!" and was almost gleeful. "Oh, I will get _plenty_ of volunteers, Guv; don't you worry!" He made it clear to her that this was not an official action on the record, and it certainly did not need to involve the proper Drugs Squad; it would stay as an inside "training exercise", and allow the team to show the consulting detective that he'd best mind his manners and procedures with a little more commitment in the future.

Sally couldn't resist asking, "What happens if we find something?"

"Then that's a matter for me, Detective Sergeant, not you. Now get organised and over here as soon as possible."

Sally laid it on a bit thick; squad cars screeched to a halt and the team poured out. Poor Mrs Hudson was left in a right state when they stormed upstairs after she answered the doorbell. When the landlady asked what they were doing, it was CSE Anderson who shouted back down at her, "This is a drugs bust!" Mrs Hudson looked horrified, and scurried back to her own flat, saying "this must be a mistake, surely not Sherlock? He'd promised…"

When they got into the flat, Lestrade told them to look carefully for any evidence of drugs, and the team got to work. He then realised that having the police cars outside might tip Sherlock off, and stop him from returning to face the music, so he ordered the cars back to the local station. And then he sat in Sherlock's chair- the leather and chrome one that he had brought with him from Montague Street- and he waited.

It was only twenty minutes later that he heard the front door bang shut, and he heard voices down on the ground floor, Sherlock's baritone and presumably the flatmate, talking and laughing. Greg called the team in from where they were taking Sherlock's bedroom apart, and told them to get to work on the living room and kitchen- he wanted Sherlock to walk in and see just what Greg was doing- and he would know why, as well. He sent Anderson and Sally into the kitchen, where they were most likely to find something.

He heard the doorbell ring and then the front door ionto Baker Street opened and shut again, followed by Sherlock shouting for Mrs Hudson, something about the flat. Then Mrs Hudson's worried tones were followed by the pounding feet as Sherlock came running up the stairs. The consulting detective came charging into the living room and then crossed straight to where Greg was sitting with a little smile on his face.

"What are you doing?!" Sherlock was angry.

"Well, I knew you'd find the case. I'm not stupid." _As in, get real Sherlock; I won't be played this way. There are rules, and you've just broken too many of them for me to sit back and take this._

"You can't just break into my flat." Greg realised that this must be in deference to the flatmate, the doctor who had followed Sherlock into the room, and was now watching the police officers going through Sherlock's things with some amazement. It was unlikely that he had been told that a policeman had a key, avoiding too much information too early in a relationship, lest it scare the doctor off. So, Greg just toughed it out:

"And you can't withhold evidence. And I didn't _break_ into your flat."

"Well, what do you call this then?"

Lestrade looked around innocently at the officers before returning to look at Sherlock. With a smirk, he answered "It's a drugs bust."

Sherlock's eyes blazed with anger, which Greg expected. What caught him by surprise, however, was the reaction of the doctor.

"Seriously?! This guy, a junkie?! Have you met him?!"

Greg realised that Sherlock could not have told his flatmate much, and that this revelation might jeopardise the man's willingness to share the flat, and that in turn could bring down the consulting detective's ability to work cases, again. The threat was real, and he wanted Sherlock to acknowledge it. Without that, he might never be willing to uphold their arrangement. Greg was applying a lot of pressure here, but he needed Sherlock to acknowledge that he could not ignore the rules.

Realising what was at stake, Sherlock turned away from Lestrade and walked closer to John, He looked hesitant and nervous. "John…"

But the doctor was still focussing on Lestrade. "I'm pretty sure you could search this flat all day, you wouldn't find anything you could call recreational." Greg was surprised that the older man seemed willing to defend his new flatmate after only an evening in his company.

Sherlock leaned in a bit closer. "John, you probably want to shut up now."

"Yeah, but come on…" The shorter man looked up at the taller brunet and Sherlock held his gaze for a long moment. The doctor seemed then suddenly realised the significance of the silence.

"No."

"What?"

"You?" with incredulity.

Greg watched the exchange between the two men with something approaching amazement. Sherlock didn't like people intruding on his personal space and he usually kept well away from others, too, and as for the kind of eye contact he had given the blonde man, it was another obvious clue that there was something rather different about their relationship.

"Shut up." Sherlock snapped and turned back to Lestrade, angry now that the detective had embarrassed him in front of his new flatmate.

"I'm not your sniffer dog." Sherlock snarled at Greg.

Lestrade decided he could not afford to let up, so he replied, "No, _Anderson_ is my sniffer dog." He nodded to the kitchen,

"What? An..."

The sliding doors between the living room and the kitchen opened to reveal several more officers in there searching. Anderson turned toward Sherlock and waved.

Sherlock went ballistic. "Anderson, what are _you_ doing here on a drugs bust?!"

The Crime Scene Examiner smirked, "Oh, I _volunteered_."

Greg continued, "They all did. They're not strictly speaking _on_ the drugs squad, but they're very keen," turning the pressure up yet another notch.

Donovan backed into view between the doors, holding a small glass jar with some round objects in it. "Are these _human_ eyes?" Her disgust was clear.

"Put those back!"

"They were in the microwave!"

"It's an _experiment!_"

Lestrade butted in, "Keep looking guys." He stood up and walked over to Sherlock. "Or, you could help us properly, and I'll stand them down."

Sherlock was incensed and he began to pace like a caged animal. "This is _childish!"_

"Well, I am _dealing_ with a child. Sherlock, this is our case. I'm letting you in, but you do _not_ go off on your own. Clear?"

Sherlock stopped his pacing and leaned in toward Greg, glaring at him. "Oh, what, so-so-so, you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?" The stutter told Greg everything he needed to know about how much pressure Sherlock was feeling. But he couldn't let up or give in. He had to make his point. And he knew Sherlock better than anyone else in the room did. So he just said, "it stops being _pretend_ if they find anything."

Sherlock shouted loudly, "I am _clean_!" so that everyone in the flat could hear it, including the doctor.

Lestrade wouldn't be moved. "But is your _flat_? All of it?" He knew that somewhere Sherlock would have stashed a contingency plan. Sherlock would know that he knew, too.

The brunet stopped beside Lestrade, unbuttoned his cuff and rolled up his left sleeve. "I don't even _smoke_!"

Greg did the same. "Neither do I." The flatmate was watching him and Sherlock with a puzzled look on his face, as the DI continued, "...so let's work together."

He let that sink in, and decided to re-focus Sherlock on the case. "We've found Rachel."

That had the desired effect. Instantly, Sherlock turned his attention back to him. "Who is she?"

"Jennifer Wilson's only daughter."

That provoked a frown, clearly not what he was expecting. "Her daughter? Why would she write her daughter's name? Why?"

Anderson butted in from the kitchen. "Never mind _that_, we've found the case." He pointed to the pink case in the living room and carried on sarcastically, "according to _someone_, the _murderer_ has the case, and we found it in the hand of our favourite psychopath."

Sherlock whirled around and snarled, "I'm not a psychopath, Anderson; I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research."

He turned back to Greg, and said rather aggressively, "You need to bring Rachel in. You need to question her. _I _need to question her_._"

Greg just looked at the tall brunet who could hardly handle control his agitation. "She's dead."

"Excellent!"

That provoked a startled reaction from the flatmate, who was eying the two men having this tense exchange.

Sherlock did not notice. "How, when and why? Is there a connection? There _has_ to be."

Greg shook his head. "Well, I doubt it, since she's been dead for fourteen years. Technically, she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter, fourteen years ago." Out of the corner of his eye, Greg saw the doctor grimace sadly and turn away. Sherlock on the other hand, just looked confused. The effect of the information, on top of the agitation he had been experiencing led Sherlock to stutter again. "No, that's..that's not right. How...Why would she do that? _Why?!"_

Anderson piped up again from the kitchen. "Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments? Yup- sociopath; I'm seeing it now."

Sherlock whirled around to confront the man. Angrily, "She didn't _think_ about her daughter. She scratched her name on the floor with her fingernails. She was dying. It took effort, it would have _hurt_." He set off again pacing back and forth, increasingly agitated. Greg started worrying that it might be adding up to too much pressure.

The flatmate spoke up. "You said the victims all took the poison themselves, that he _makes_ them take it. Well, maybe he...I don't know, talks to them? Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow..."

Sherlock stopped his pacing and looked at the shorter man, then said dismissively "Yeah, but that was _ages_ ago. Why would she still be upset?"

It must have been the aghast look that Watson gave him, or the fact that the rest of the people in the room stopped what they were doing and went quiet at the question. Greg almost flinched at the insensitivity of it, and he was _used_ to Sherlock. The consulting detective paused, sensing that something was wrong as he glanced around the room. Expecting the young man to look at him for guidance, Greg had his eye on him when Sherlock turned back to the doctor, and asked quietly "Not good?"

John glanced around at the others before turning his eyes back to Sherlock, "_bit _notgood, yeah._"_

In that moment, Greg realised that something very significant was happening; Sherlock was trying to connect with the doctor at a deeper level than the older man had ever seen him attempt with another person, Greg included. Sherlock's body language was entirely focussed on the shorter man. The brunet shook off the awkward moment, and stepped closer, looking at the doctor intently.

"Yeah, but if you were dying...if you'd been murdered, in your very last few seconds what would you say?"

Watson locked eyes with Sherlock and said quietly. "Please God, let me live."

Exasperated, Sherlock just snapped, "Oh, use your imagination!"

The blonde lifted his chin and said calmly in the face of Sherlock's insensitivity, "I don't have to."

Greg remembered what Mrs Hudson said, that the flatmate was an army doctor invalided home from Afghanistan. So, he was speaking from personal experience, and standing up to the consulting detective's usual belittling style. Not aggressively, just firmly, without malice or judgement. And Sherlock realised it, too. Normally, when Greg had witnessed Sherlock being socially gauche, the younger man made it clear that he didn't care what others thought. A lack of empathy and social awkwardness came with the territory that was Sherlock. Everyone in the room apart from the flatmate had been on the receiving end of that ineptitude.

With this man, however, Sherlock seemed to realise that he'd stepped over a boundary. He paused, and blinked a few times, shifting his body a little, as if physically apologising. But the need to solve the case took over, and he was off again.

"Yeah, but if you were clever, _really_ clever...Jennifer Wilson running all those lovers; she _was_ clever." He broke eye contact with Watson and started to pace again, "She's trying to tell us something." He was really, really worked up and now trying to focus his attention down, trying to block out the presence of so many people in the flat, and concentrate on the case.

Greg tried to see things through his eyes. Sherlock was in an unfamiliar place. Too many people including a number he detested and a flatmate who he would know he shouldn't offend this early into their relationship. Too much noise, assaulting his senses. Add to that a confusing case, and no wonder the man was struggling to keep control.

Greg started to regret the whole idea of pushing Sherlock like this. While relationships between his team and the consulting detective had been rocky from the start, Lestrade hadn't thought through what a new flatmate might make of all this. What if Sherlock went into melt-down, would that chase off the doctor, and make Mycroft pull the plug on case work?

To make matters worse, Mrs Hudson came to the door of the living room and asked "isn't your doorbell working? Your taxi's here, Sherlock."

He was pacing and just blurted out "I didn't order a taxi. Go away."

Mrs Hudson looked at the room. "Oh dear, they're making such a mess. What are they looking for?"

The doctor just explained calmly, "it's a drugs bust, Mrs Hudson."

Until now, she probably had not understood that would involve such an intensive search. She wailed, "But, they're just for my hip; they're herbal soothers!" Her distress was the final straw. Sherlock was facing away from the door, but he stopped his pacing, stood straight and just shouted.

"SHUT UP! Everybody, shut up! Don't move, don't speak, don't breathe. I'm trying to think Anderson, face the other way. You're putting me off."

Anderson shouted back, "What? My _face_ is?!"

Sherlock didn't answer, and Greg suddenly realised that the brunet couldn't answer; he was just about to go into a full melt-down. The DI stepped in and said firmly, "Everybody quiet and still. Anderson, turn your back."

The CSE complained, "Oh, for God's sake!"

Greg silenced him with a glare. "Your _back_, now, please!"

For a split second, no one moved, all eyes on Sherlock in fear of what might be about to happen.


	33. Chapter 33

**Chapter Thirty Three- 2010 A Third Party (Part Seven)**

* * *

All eyes on Sherlock, the people in the room waited for the explosion.

The tall brunet was still standing with his back to the people in the room, muttering to himself, trying to cling to the threads of deduction as if they were his very lifeline. "Come on, think! Quick!"

Mrs Hudson at that stage did the one thing Greg was dreading- she interrupted to ask, "what about your taxi?"

He whirled around and shouted furiously, "MRS HUDSON!"

Shocked by his fury, she put her hand to her mouth and ran from the room. Greg started to move toward Sherlock to try to calm him down, but then stopped as he saw Sherlock stop.

"Oh!"

Greg watched the smile blossom on Sherlock's face. He relaxed a tiny bit; maybe melt-down had been pushed aside by revelation?

"Oh, she was clever, clever, yes!" He could hardly contain his excitement as he walked away from them and then suddenly spun back to face them. "She's cleverer than you lot, and she's dead. Do you see, do you get it? She didn't _lose_ her phone. She never _lost_ it. She _planted_ it on him!" Unable to hold still, he started pacing again.

"When she got out of the car, she knew that she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer."

Greg voiced what he suspected everyone in the room was asking, "But, how?"

Sherlock stopped and stared at him in surprise. "Wha…? What do you mean, how?"

Lestrade was confused.

"Rachel!" Sherlock looked expectantly at the others, who looked back blankly.

As if they hadn't heard him the first time, he repeated himself. "Don't you see? Rachel!"

Greg wondered if this was some strange form of break down- Sherlock wasn't making any sense, and he started to worry.

Sherlock didn't help. In an odd tone and with a strange sort of look on his face, he said"Oh, look at you lot. You're all so vacant. Is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing." This obscure comment was delivered half sarcastically, half bewildered. Greg couldn't keep his mind from leaping to an awful conclusion- o_h, shit, I think he's cracking up._

Sherlock just scowled at him. "Rachel is not a name."

It was John who decided to try to make sense of what his flatmate was saying. "Then what is it?"

Sherlock focused on the doctor. "John, on the luggage, there's a label- e mail address." Then he turned away and sat down at the table, and woke his laptop up. "Oh, I've been too slow. She didn't have a laptop, which means she did all her business on her phone, so it's a smartphone. It's e-mail enabled."

John read out the e mail address. Sherlock typed it into the laptop, talking to himself, "So, there was a website for her account…the username is her e-mail address…. All together now, the password is?"

John walked over to stand behind him "…Rachel."

Anderson was not impressed. "So, we can read her e-mails. So what?"

Sherlock sneered. "Anderson, don't talk out loud. You lower the IQ of the whole street. We can do much more than read her e-mails. It's a smartphone, it's got GPS, which means if you lose it, you can locate it online. She's leading us directly to the man who killed her."

Lestrade had moved closer to John and Sherlock. He voiced his concern…"Unless he got rid of it."

The flatmate answered before Sherlock could. "We know he didn't."

Sherlock was looking at the screen impatiently. He'd typed in the password and clicked on the location function, but it was taking it's time. "Come on, come on, quickly!"

Mrs Hudson came back up the stairs, and tentatively entered the room again. "Sherlock, dear, this taxi driver…"

Sherlock got up from the table and walked toward her. "Mrs Hudson, isn't it time for your evening soother?" He was trying to get rid of her, but at least he wasn't shouting, for which Greg was thankful. The young man then turned to Greg and said dramatically, "We need to get vehicles, get a helicopter….we're going to have to move fast. This phone battery won't last forever."

Greg wondered about that. "We'll just have a map reference, not a name."

Sherlock dismissed his caution. "It's a start!"

The doctor had kept his eye on the laptop as it churned away. "Sherlock…"

That drew the tall brunet over in a flash, where he leaned closely over the shorter man's shoulder to see the screen. "What is it? Quickly, where?"

The doctor's surprise was clear. "It's here. It's in 221b Baker Street."

Sherlock straightened up, startled. "How can it be here? _HOW?"_

Greg sighed. "Well, maybe it was in the case when you brought it back and it fell out somewhere."

Sherlock snorted. "What, and I didn't notice it? _ME?_ _I_ didn't notice?"

The flatmate told Greg that he had texted him at Jennifer Wilson's number and that he had called back, earlier in the evening, but that the number had been blocked. Lestrade took this in, but called out to the Yard team, "Guys, we're also looking for a mobile somewhere, belonging to the victim…"

Sherlock just stood absolutely still in the room as the others went about frantically searching. Greg kept an eye on him as he went about the search. From time to time, the younger man moved his head, as if visualising something. Greg had seen him do it countless times before. _Is he working something out? _ Or, was this the aftereffects of the near melt-down? He didn't look too good. Then the brunet's attention was taken by the sound of a text alert, which he scanned briefly. But, Greg saw that he was still at a loss, and showing clear signs of confusion.

That made Greg worried. He stopped his search and was trying to find the words to say that wouldn't embarrass the young man in front of the others. But, before Greg could do it, the flatmate got there first. "Sherlock, you okay?"

Sherlock didn't look at him, just vaguely mumbled, "What? Yeah, yeah, I…I'm fine."

Greg watched the doctor sizing up Sherlock's confused state. "So, how can the phone be here?" That's exactly what Greg would have done, try to ground the young man and get his attention focused back on the case. Sherlock's reply worried the DI; the vague "dunno" was just so…unlike Sherlock. Greg's level of alarm rose.

The flatmate didn't give up. Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he said, "I'll try it again." That stopped the DI, who suddenly realised that if the doctor rang the number again, the sound of the ringing would tell them where the phone was in the flat. _Surely, Sherlock would have figured that out already? _ But Sherlock, just muttered, "Good idea," as if he wasn't particularly interested anymore, and headed toward the living room door. As he started to key re-dial, the doctor noticed, stopped what he was doing and asked "Where are _you_ going?"

Greg heard the reply "Fresh air…just popping outside for a moment; won't be long." The casual tone sounded horribly false. He watched in disbelief, as Sherlock headed down the stairs. _Walking out in the middle of an on-going investigation, just as the key piece of evidence is about to be revealed? That is __not good__._ Whatever the stresses of the night had wrought, clearly Sherlock was now in need of an escape, an opportunity to shut down for a few minutes. Greg wondered if he was going to go outside to smoke a cigarette and try to calm his nerves. He decided to give Sherlock a bit of peace. From bitter experience, he knew that if he pressed too hard when Sherlock was wrestling with his sensory issues, it could lead to a pretty bruising exchange, with the young man resenting being reminded of his disability. _Not in front of the new flatmate._

But the doctor wouldn't let it go, so he asked again, "You sure you're all right?" As Sherlock hurried down the stairs, Lestrade heard the reply, "I'm fine."

Greg would give him five minutes to pull himself together and then go down and see if he could help. The officers continued their search. The doctor just stood there for a moment, then walked to the window and looked down. _Probably keeping an eye on Sherlock; he's clearly twitched that something is not right._ Greg hoped that this wouldn't end in the potential flatmate realising that Sherlock's behaviour wasn't just some form of eccentricity. He had no idea what kind of doctor the guy was, and whether he'd recognise a neuro-atypical condition. Well, he wasn't going to be the one to tell him, lest Sherlock blame him for chasing the man off.

A few moments later, the doctor said, "He just got in a cab." He turned away from the window, looked at Lestrade and said in a worried tone, "It's Sherlock. He just drove off in a cab."

Donovan was standing next to Lestrade as this was said, and she just tutted in irritation. "I told you, he does that. " She looked pointedly at the DI. "He bloody left again." She stalked off to the kitchen and shouted in annoyance. "We're wasting our time!"

John realised he was still holding his phone in his hand. He hit the re-call key; "I'm calling the phone. It's ringing out."

The flat was silent.

Lestrade frowned. "If it's ringing, it's not here."

John pulled the phone away from his ear, and turned back to the table with the laptop on it. "I'll try the search again."

Donovan came back from the kitchen to confront Lestrade. "Does it matter? Does any of it? You know, he's just a lunatic, and he'll _always_ let you down. You're wasting your time. _All _of our time."

Greg was trying to make sense of it. Having just had the whole drugs bust orchestrated to make the point that Sherlock needed to work together with the Yard, would he really have gone off on to pursue a lead? For once, his behaviour wasn't defiant or cocky. Sherlock's departure wasn't the result of his usual "Oh!" realisation. There was no indication that he'd come to understand something suddenly and gone haring off in pursuit. His distracted manner, his peculiar behaviour worried the detective. Maybe the cab had been taken to get away from the flat, the intrusion, the people, before he had a proper melt-down?

As he went through these possibilities, he knew that it was too late- in either case. He sighed and then said loudly so everyone on the team could hear, "Okay, everybody. Done here."


	34. Chapter 34

**Chapter Thirty Four- 2010 A Third Party (Part Eight)**

* * *

Lestrade was in a quandary. He had no idea why Sherlock had left. There was nothing normal at all about it. He could be in the midst of a melt-down, or about to be spectacularly disobedient and be on the hunt for the killer. And Greg had no idea which of the two might be the case. He couldn't help but voice his concern out loud. "Why did he do that? Why did he have to leave?"

The other police officers were packing up their kit, so it was the flatmate who responded to his rhetorical question. The doctor shrugged and pointed out, "You know him better than I do."

Greg thought about the times he'd worked crime scenes with Sherlock. "I've known him for five years. And, no, I don't."

The doctor just looked at him calmly, if a bit puzzled. "Then why do you put up with him?"

Greg just looked pained. It was something Donovan and everyone else on the team asked him every time. "Because I'm desperate, that's why."

On his way out the door, he realised that his comment might be misunderstood by Sherlock's new flatmate, and he didn't want to put the man off the idea of sharing the flat with the consulting detective. So, he turned back to look at Watson again.

"And because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think one day, if we're very, very lucky, he might even be a _good_ one."

Sally Donovan was going down the stairs in front of him and overheard that comment. She then spent the entire trip back to the Yard complaining about the Sherlock, and why Greg felt the need to get him involved. He tried to stop her.

"Thanks to him, we have recovered the case."

"No, thanks to him, we won't be able to use it in evidence, because he moved it from the point of discovery and contaminated it for forensic purposes." She was as cross as Lestrade had been when he first discovered the pink case.

She carried on. "Thanks to him, Anderson will be half the night trying to find something from the case that we can actually use to dig up another lead. And, then he spins us this story about the victim's phone but it actually shows up on the GPS as being at his flat. I think you need to think that he might be a suspect, Guv."

"_WHAT?!" _ Lestrade was shocked.

"I've always said it- if he got bored enough, then he'd start killing people. He's a psychopath. That's what psychopaths do. And being kept off cases officially for the past three months could have driven him to it."

He snorted. "Just leave off, Donovan. He's got every conceivable alibi for the times of the suicides, and I know there will be CCTV footage that can prove it, too. You really need to get a handle on that animosity of yours. I know he can be a wanker, but his deduction skills have made our team, _your_ team's reputation the best in the Division. So, just watch it with the ridiculous accusations."

She'd gone off home to sulk. Greg had gone home to see if Louise had cooked an evening meal.

Greg was just finishing off his dried out pasta bake supper when his phone rang. He'd left the Yard in a thoroughly pissed off mood, and the meal wasn't improving things. Louise had just left it in the oven with a note under the fridge magnet that said "check your phone messages sometime!" When he did key up voice mail, he found one from her: "I'm out with the girls tonight; could be late, don't wait up- that is, assuming you _ever_ bother to show up. Really, Greg- you are such a bloody workaholic, sometimes I wonder whether I should bother fixing you a supper." There was a sigh and then she hung up.

So, when the fork was nearly to his mouth and his phone rang, he hoped it was Louise, having a good time, so he could explain. When he checked caller ID, however, it was the Yard, so he grimaced. _Not another bloody case. Why do these things __always__ happen at night?_

According to the Night Desk Sergeant, it was an emergency, so he did ring the number back, even though he didn't recognise it.

"Oh, thank God, Detective Inspector, this is John Watson."

For a split second, Greg knew he recognised the voice, but couldn't place it.

"Sherlock's flatmate, remember?"

That got Greg's attention in a hurry. "Is he ok? Has something happened?" He could hear traffic noises in the background. Then he heard the flatmate say something, "…er, left here. Turn left here."

The guy came back on. "I got Sherlock's laptop search thingy to try again, and this time it tracked the phone moving away from Baker Street. I'm in the back of a cab now, trying to chase it down. We're somewhere south of the river, just seen a sign for Denmark Hill."

"OK, but why are _you_ trying to recover the phone? Where's Sherlock?"

"I don't know, do I? But there was something definitely odd about Sherlock leaving like that, and I think that his getting in that cab at Baker Street and this phone in motion are in some way connected."

Greg considered that. "Maybe, but on the other hand, Sherlock could have just headed back to his old flat for a bit of peace and quiet. He was kind of put out about the drugs bust thing." He decided not to tell the flatmate about possible meltdowns, sensory processing disorders and ASD. He'd leave Sherlock to explain, if the guy hung around long enough.

Watson disagreed with Lestrade's assessment of Sherlock's departure. "I really think you need to be paying attention to this. If the phone is in motion, and Sherlock left the flat, don't you think he'd be after it?"

"Maybe." It was the best Greg could do. He didn't understand what was going on in Sherlock's head. His behaviour tonight was just so abnormal. "Look, when the phone stops moving, give Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan a call at the Yard and pass on the address. Then get the cab to take you home. She'll send a squad car to investigate. Don't you do anything daft, Doctor…" He reached in his memory for the guy's last name "…uh, Watson, isn't it?"

"Yeah, thanks a lot," and rang off. If there was a trace of sarcasm in the man's tone, Lestrade chose to ignore it. He was still trying to puzzle the flatmate out. He seemed fairly innocuous. An ex-Army doctor back from a tour of duty in Afghanistan. How that could possibly fit with Sherlock Holmes in all his extraordinariness, Greg struggled to understand. Yet, on the evidence of what he'd seen in Baker Street during the evening, Lestrade had to admit that there was clearly a connection forming, almost a kind of chemistry going on. It worried him. _Who is this guy? What are his intentions?_ As soon as he thought that, he grimaced_. I'm thinking like some over-protective big brother I know._ But, for all Greg knew, Sherlock might have met the doctor in some gay bar somewhere, and they were already on intimate terms. Over the years, Greg had been puzzled by Sherlock's sexual orientation, or rather a lack of a clear indication- or indeed of any interest at all in such matters. Sherlock would always be a mystery wrapped up in an enigma, and that was putting it politely. Lestrade had no idea what he did with his spare time, and as long as it didn't involve drugs or drug dealers, he was okay with it.

That said, tonight had been different. Greg had already sent Sherlock half a dozen texts since he left Baker Street, none of which had been answered, but he tried again now.

**10.59 Where the hell are you? Phone on the move again. If you want to know where, call me. GL **

Ninety minutes later, his phone rang. This time he recognised the ID as he nearly choked on the piece of pasta he'd just started to swallow. _ Sherlock, you wanker! You'd better have a good excuse…._

He thumbed on the call, and said, with his mouth full. "Just where the hell are you? The next time you show up at a crime scene, I swear I will just handcuff you to a railing. You have no right to go bolting off and not telling anyone where you are going."

"Detective Inspector." The baritone voice was a little higher pitched than normal, and that brought a pang of worry to Greg. Had Sherlock escaped the drugs bust to go somewhere private for a melt-down? Lestrade was torn.

"What's happened?" His concern was evident.

There was a sigh. "You need to send a team to Roland Kerr College; that's on Warner Road, in Camberwell, SE11. I've just… located… the serial suicide murderer. He's a cab driver by the name of Jeff Hope..."

Lestrade broke in, "Don't do _anything_, Sherlock. Just sit tight and wait for back-up."

But the consulting detective just carried on talking, "… unfortunately, he's dead. Killed by a single gun-shot to the heart. A remarkable piece of marksmanship. Not my doing, I should emphasise, even though he was attempting to convince me to take one of those poison pills at the time."

_Oh, shit._ Greg took a deep breath. "Are you alright?!"

Sherlock just calmly replied, "Of course. He's the one who just bled out on the floor. The second floor of …." There was a brief gap, as Greg guessed he was looking around. He heard the sound of footsteps and then a door opening. "…Room 231, Block E. Oh, and do be careful, there is a virtually identical building right next door; this one is on the left when you view it from the street."

"Shut up, Sherlock, sit down and stay exactly where you are. Do not move, do you hear me?" He was already trying to put on his jacket while keeping the hand with his phone to his ear.

"Oh, don't worry, Lestrade, I have no intention of going anywhere. This is far too interesting a crime scene for me to be leaving anytime soon."

oOo

It took the Yard team 17 minutes to get there. Because he was at home in North London Lestrade took almost twice as long. When he charged up the stairs and into the room, he saw Sherlock was sitting quietly in what appeared to be a classroom chair, tucked into one side of a lab table. He was looking at something on his phone as if there was nothing out of the ordinary in the room. But, Greg could clearly see that this wasn't the case, because on the floor to his left was the body of a grey-haired man, lying in a pool of blood. A Crime Scene Examiner was measuring the corpse's liver temperature.

The rest of the team was already spread out in the room, processing the scene. Sherlock finished what he was doing on the phone, and stood up to face the Detective Inspector.

"Took your time, Lestrade, _again_."

Greg just looked at Sherlock in weary surprise. "What the hell happened, Sherlock? Who is this guy?"

Sherlock looked down at the body. "Meet Jefferson Hope, Licensed Hackney taxi driver, aged 58, divorced or at least estranged from his wife, two kids, lives alone, suffering from an inoperable aneurism that could have blown at any point since it was diagnosed three years ago. He's been paid by someone he calls a 'sponsor' a sum of money for every person he could kill this way. Four successes so far, I was to be his fifth, if he could convince me to take one of the pills out of one of those two bottles." He stopped the verbal onslaught long enough to gesture at the table, where a blue suited Crime Scene Examiner was putting a gun into a plastic bag.

Sherlock continued, "No, the gun isn't real. His other victims thought it was; it was how he got them to listen to them when he offered them the choice of being shot or taking their chance that one of the two pill bottles contained something harmless. And, no, I don't know who the sponsor is or why he would do such a thing."

"But, what's the connection between the taxi driver and the victims?" Greg was trying to get his head around the link between the victims. "How did he choose them?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "That's the whole point, isn't it! There _is_ no connection. They were just fares, randomly selected. A taxi cab is the perfect murder weapon. It passes unnoticed anywhere, could pull up at any building, at Lauriston Gardens or a city office block. He could hunt in the middle of a crowd- a train station taxi queue, on the street in the pouring rain. Who did every victim trust, even if they didn't know them? A cab driver is invisible, and his victims willingly got into the cab. It was…brilliant."

Greg listened to the explanation delivered at blistering speed, and realised that Sherlock was seriously wound up. Tighter than a drum. It was different from his usual post case persona. That tended to be smug and satisfied, enjoying the opportunity to show off how much he had deduced and how stupid the police had been. There was none of that smugness now. And there were unfinished issues.

"So, who killed him?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Haven't a clue." He turned and pointed to the bullet hole in the glass, and to the room beyond. "I was talking to the cabbie, he was trying to provoke me into taking a pill. And then there was a single shot. By the time I got to the window, there was no one there."

Greg could see through the window that there were a couple of officers in the room, processing for fingerprints, and gun-shot residue. He followed the line of sight from the bullet hole and saw another officer digging a bullet out of the wooden door on the other side of the room. "Well, forensics might give us some ideas."

Sherlock turned back to the table and picked up his phone, then started to turn towards the door.

"No, we've not done here, Sherlock." Greg wasn't about to let this one go. Despite every advice to the contrary, the tall brunet had disregarded every rule of engagement that had been set by Mycroft and Lestrade. Yet, he seemed totally oblivious to the fact, concentrating instead on something on his phone.

"Sherlock!" That brought the young man's attention back to Greg. "That little exercise at Baker Street was supposed to impress upon you the need to follow the rules. I'm not joking- this time you've gone too far. How did you track this guy down, and why the hell didn't you tell me, or call for back-up?"

"I didn't 'track him down', Lestrade, he came for me. He was outside Baker Street when I went downstairs. He had a gun. In the dark, I couldn't see what I saw once he tried to use it in here- it's a fake."

Greg was watching Sherlock. There was something not quite right with the explanation. A little too glib? He could not shake the feeling that Sherlock wasn't telling him the whole truth.

"You didn't take a pill, did you?"

Sherlock frowned. "No, of course not; I know how the other victims died. Why would I willingly take something I knew might kill me?"

One of the forensic team called out, "Found one of the pills on the floor, here sir."

Sherlock nodded. "That's the one I had in my hand when the shot came through the window."

That made Greg look back at him. "You _handled_ the poison?"

"Problem?"

Greg just put his hand to his forehead. "Right, Downstairs now. There is an ambulance at the front of the building. Get checked out, _NOW."_

Sherlock looked surprised. "Why?"

Greg lost it. He walked up to Sherlock, looked him straight in the eye and said "Because you've just handled a poison, and there could be traces on your hands, that could be transferred to your mouth, by accident. Not to mention the fact that you were targeted by a serial killer, who was shot and died not two feet away from you tonight. Any one of those is a reason to get looked over by a paramedic, so move it."

Sherlock glared back at him. "I chose the right bottle; mine wasn't the poison."

"You can't be sure of that until we test the bottles, by which time it will be too late. So, downstairs- now."

The consulting detective wore an expression very close to a pout, but he decided to obey.

oOo

Once the ferocity of his glare propelled Sherlock out the door, Lestrade turned to the crime scene crew and started asking questions. Ten minutes later, he realised that he had learned far more from Sherlock's explanation than he was going to get out of his people. Apart from the bullet, there was nothing new. The CSE who had dug it out of the wooden door frame bagged it and handed it over to Lestrade. It was a 9 millimetre slug, with nothing out of the ordinary visible to the naked eye. He did stand where the officer thought the cabbie was when the bullet hit, and look through the bullet hole in the glass window, then across the gap between the two buildings- quite a distance for a pistol.

He checked with the team processing the room where the shooter had been, but they'd come up with nothing conclusive. There were literally hundreds of fingerprints and partials on the door and window. "Sorry, Guv, but this is a school, after all. Doubt any of these are going to be on file anywhere. We can try, but it will be like looking for a needle in a haystack."

Greg tried to think it through. It was possible that if Sherlock was in immediate danger, one of the SO6 crew nominally assigned to keep him safe could have been responsible, but normal protocol would have required the officer to stay on site. Or, it could have been one of Mycroft's men, doing the same thing, but a whole lot less likely to stay until the police arrived. Both of these ideas depended, however, on the surveillance teams being aware of Sherlock's movements and being right behind him. They'd singularly failed to do so in the past, but might have got lucky this time. But, if so, why go to a room across from where he and the murderer actually were? It made no sense.

He went back down to the street level, where he could see Sherlock sitting on the back of an ambulance. One of the paramedics took off a finger clip from him and placed an orange blanket across his shoulders, provoking an annoyed look from the young man. As Greg came up, he complained, "Why have I got this blanket? They keep putting this blanket on me."

"Yeah, it's for shock." From the fact that he was still here and not being fussed over, Greg surmised that they had cleared him from having ingested any poison by accident.

Sherlock glared. "I'm not _in_ shock."

Lestrade decided to lighten the mood with a smile. "Yeah, but some of the guys want to take photographs."

Sherlock just rolled his eyes in disgust. Then he returned to the unfinished business of the crime scene, and that alone told Greg that the young man was totally unbothered by the incident. "So, the shooter. No sign?"

"Cleared off before we got here. But a guy like that would have had enemies, I suppose. One of them could have been following him, but…we've got nothing to go on." Greg shrugged, as if he was still trying to put it together himself. No need to freak Sherlock out even more about the surveillance he was under by drawing attention to it.

Sherlock just looked at him. "Oh, I wouldn't say that."

Now it was Greg's turn to look askance. "Okay, gimme." If Sherlock knew it was one of Mycroft's people, he should have said earlier.

Sherlock stood up and started speaking quickly. "The bullet they just dug out of the wall's from a hand gun. Kill shot over that distance from that kind of a weapon- that's a crack shot you're looking for, but not just a marksman; a fighter. His hands couldn't have shaken at all, so clearly he's acclimatised to violence. He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle. You're looking for a man probably with a history of military service…."

While he was delivering his deductions, Sherlock's eyes were wandering over the area. Greg saw his eyes come to rest, as his stream of words stuttered for a moment. Then he resumed for a moment "…nerves of steel…" before his verbal momentum came grinding to a halt. Greg looked to see what Sherlock was looking at, and saw the flatmate standing some distance behind the police tape, calmly watching the scene. The doctor was looking at Sherlock, but as Lestrade spotted him, he turned his head away.

Before Greg's brain could catch up with what his eyes had just seen, Sherlock turned back to look at him and take his attention away from the flatmate. "Actually, you know what? Ignore me."

Greg was thrown. Whatever he expected from Sherlock, he'd never, ever admitted to being wrong before. He blurted out, "Sorry?" to check if he'd actually heard the young man correctly.

"Ignore all of that. It's just the, er…the shock talking." He started to walk away.

"Where are you going?" Greg couldn't believe Sherlock; something was clearly going on. Was he worried about what the flatmate must be making of all this? He'd seen the man behind the tape, and suddenly lost interest in the deductions he was making. Was he concerned that the doctor would pull out of sharing a flat with someone who ended up routinely at crime scenes like these? Greg was trying to make sense of it when Sherlock replied, "I just need to talk about…the rent."

So Greg was right, the flatmate was somehow responsible for Sherlock's changed behaviour. "But, I've still got questions for you."

Sherlock stopped and looked back at him in irritation. "Oh, what _now? _ I'm in shock! Look, I've got a blanket!" He flapped the edges of the orange fabric, as if to emphasise the diagnosis.

Greg wasn't buying any of it. "Sherlock!"

"And I just caught you a serial killer…more or less."

Lestrade just looked at him. From the point of view of the Yard and the team, Sherlock's assessment was quite right, and they should be grateful that it had ended as well as it did. The press would be delighted, and another successful clear up would be chalked up. But, Lestrade was well aware that Sherlock was keeping something important from him. He was mulling over what he should do, when out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a black government car pulling onto the road leading to the crime scene. He decided Sherlock was about to have more than enough on his plate. With a smile, he said, "Okay, we'll bring you in tomorrow. Off you go." He watched the young man walk off towards the flatmate. Sherlock pulled the blanket off his shoulders and bundled it up, tossing it into the open window of one the police cars, before ducking under the tape. _So much for shock, Sherlock. Just what are you playing at?_

Lestrade watched as the taller man spoke to the shorter one. Whatever was said, it seemed to mollify the doctor, because as the pair began to walk along the side of the police tape, he could see that Sherlock was smiling and the doctor seemed to be in a good mood, too. They passed Sergeant Donovan and there was an exchange of words, but Greg could tell that this time, there was no ill will being communicated. Donovan just stared at the two men as they carried on past her.

Unfortunately, their path took them past the black car, now parked by the police tape. _Uh oh. Here comes trouble._ Greg watched as Mycroft Holmes emerged. It was Watson who stopped first. But, that made sense when Greg realised the doctor had already met him, when he was "vetted." Then Sherlock strode over, his gait making his annoyance clear. There was a terse exchange of words, which Greg couldn't hear because they were turned away from him, but he could see their tense body language. Lestrade had rarely seen the two brothers interact; Sherlock's relationship with his brother was fraught at the best of times, and Greg had been willing over the years to play intermediary. Sherlock's behaviour in front of his brother could be shocking. Greg hoped that for the sake of the flatmate, he'd keep his temper leashed this time.

It was a brief exchange, and then Sherlock stalked away. The shorter man stayed behind briefly, speaking to Mycroft and then hurried off after the consulting detective. Greg decided he needed answers, so he walked over to where Mycroft was staring down the road after the two men.

When Greg reached his side, he just greeted him, "Evening, Mr Holmes."

"Technically, it is good morning, Detective Inspector."

Greg smiled. Both the Holmes' could be remarkably pedantic when it suited. "I need a word with you. Have you been briefed about what happened here tonight?"

"I am aware of Sherlock's abduction, the cab driver's intentions, and the fact that they were thwarted by a skilled marksman."

"Was it one of your men who fired the gun?"

"Alas, no, Detective Inspector. I fear my people were a little too slow to realise what was going on."

Greg looked around. "And, I suppose it's safe to guess that DPG weren't involved either?"

Mycroft just sniffed. "Since when has SO6 been _that_ competent?" His derision was plain. He continued, "Remarkably, I believe we have Doctor Watson to thank for a timely appearance."

Startled, Greg looked at the elder Holmes with astonishment. "What- the guy with a cane? The flatmate? He shot the serial killer? To protect Sherlock?" Each question was asked with increasing incredulity.

"Apparently," was the dry reply.

"Where the hell did he get a gun?"

Holmes looked at him as if he was an idiot. "I understand that army officers are issued a personal weapon, even doctors, Lestrade. His service record suggests he is a rather good shot- which is fortunate for my brother's sake, wouldn't you agree?"

The elder Holmes looked more intently at Greg. "If it had been SO6 or one of my people, the cabbie's death would be the end of the story. So, I am assuming that there will be no further investigation into the matter of who removed a serial killer."

Put that way, there was nothing that the DI could do except nod his agreement. But, the idea of Sherlock moving in with a man who had an illegal weapon, and who knew how to use it to lethal effect, and who would do so on the basis of …Greg had to count it, given how much had happened…on the basis of less than eight hours of sharing a flat. Well, that alarmed Greg.

"So, let me get this straight. You are happy for Sherlock to move into a flat with an ex-Army doctor who was willing and able to kill a villain on the off-chance that he could convince your brother to take a poison pill?"

Mycroft's eyebrows raised in surprise. "You would prefer a drug dealer or a homeless person, would you, Lestrade? I am not entirely sure I understand the good doctor's motives yet, but he has rather proved his worth tonight. If Sherlock can manage to avoid irritating him to the point where he leaves, this could be a useful development indeed. Since neither you, your team, nor I or my team were able to give Sherlock the back-up he needed tonight, let us be glad that _someone_ was willing and able to do just that."

And with that, the elder Holmes turned on his heel, and collected his PA who was texting by the side of the car. The pair got in, and the car drove off into the early morning darkness of south London.

As he turned back to the crime scene, Lestrade was wondering whether this new flatmate would be a good thing, or turn out to be the worst possible development. One thing for sure; he'd have to keep his eye on not only Sherlock in the future, but also on Doctor John Watson.


	35. Chapter 35

**Author's Note: **

A brief hiatus (no, honestly, not Sherlock's three year version!) as I prepare the next instalment- a five chapter story called "The Stockbrokers' Courier"; first chapter is up on Monday.

You can however, sneak over to the **_Ex Files_**, and catch up on the latest there- _**Examine**_- which covers the scene where Mycroft meets John for the first time. It's a little diversion that occurred to me when I was covering the bit in this story about Lestrade wanting Mycroft to "vet" the flatmate, so the rules of engagement were satisfied.

There are a LOT of followers (gee, guys, I'm flattered, chuffed and delighted!) to this story; you might want to think of following _**Ex Files**_, too, so you don't miss out.


	36. Chapter 36

**Author's Note: **Fast forward about 15 months after last chapter. Lestrade has by now figured out that John is one of the "good guys". This is case fic...

* * *

**Chapter Thirty Six: The Stockbroker's Clerk Part One: Early Morning Visitor**

* * *

"I need the keys to your motorbike."

Greg cracked one eye open to peer through the pre-dawn gloom of his bedroom. There was a tall apparition with a baritone voice standing two feet away from his bed. For a moment, Lestrade wondered if this was a dream (nightmare?). He opened the other eye and glanced at the alarm clock on the bedside table. 4_.17am. _

"Sherlock, why are you in my bedroom in the middle of the night?"

"Oh really, Lestrade, what part of my statement did you not understand? Was it the word 'keys' or the word 'motorbike'?"

The older man shifted himself up onto an elbow and glowered at Sherlock. "Ok, smart ass, let me re-phrase that question. Why couldn't this wait until daylight? Or better still, why didn't you just carry on and _steal_ the keys? I am sure that someone able to break into my flat without disturbing me should have been able to deduce where I keep the keys and leave without waking me up."

"Because I know you take at least 36 minutes to wake up, shower, shave, and have a coffee before you can even think of moving out the door, and we have to leave here by five if we are to arrive in Brighton before eight am." This was delivered in Sherlock's usual blistering speed, without drawing more than a single breath.

Lestrade groaned and flopped back onto his bed. "You mean you want more than the keys, Sherlock; 'we', you said 'we', which implies that you want to involve me in some way. What, you want me to drive you there, with you on the back of my bike? Why can't you just take the bloody train like everyone else?"

"Yes, of course, I want you to come along. The plan will work much better if there are two of us. Less likely to arouse suspicion."

"What plan?"

"I will explain as you are getting ready."

"Sherlock, this is the first weekday off I've taken in months, and I had a nice lie-in planned. Why on earth would I want to go gallivanting across the countryside of southern England?"

"Consider it a busman's holiday. I'm on the trail of a gang that is behind the spate of thefts from stockbrokers over the past three months, and the motorcycle is a key part of our disguise."

"What thefts? I haven't heard anything about thefts from stockbrokers."

"Well, no, you wouldn't have. First of all, it's in the jurisdiction of the City of London Police, not the Met, and second because none of the brokers have reported the thefts to the police, for fear of putting off their wealthy private clients."

Lestrade groaned. "If this isn't even on a station blotter anywhere, then how can it be a policeman's holiday?"

"Just get up and head for the bathroom. You know that once you are awake, you'll enjoy this more than what you were planning to do."

"And how the hell would you know what I was planning to do with my one week day off in weeks?"

Sherlock looked up at the bedroom ceiling as if looking for some divine assistance to help him deal with the idiot lying in bed in front of him. "Oh, all right. Stay at home then. The shopping list that you left on the kitchen counter means that Tesco is on your itinerary, as is doing the laundry and returning the library books that you niece checked out when she was last here three months ago, but which you will only just find today because this is the first time you will have cleaned the spare room properly since she left. Shall I go on with this parade of domesticity, or have you really lost all interest in solving crimes?"

By now, Lestrade was sitting on the edge of the bed, running his hands over his face and through his silver hair to wake himself up. "Well, since you put it so nicely, maybe I wouldn't mind getting the bike out. It's been a while. Weather forecast for today is good, might make a pleasant outing."

Sherlock grimaced, but the effect was lost in the gloom of the bedroom. "Pleasant outing? Not if I get my way," he muttered as he wandered into the flat's kitchen and started preparing coffee.

oOo

Shaved, showered and dressed, Lestrade seemed more awake as he drank the coffee that Sherlock had made them. "Where's John? Shouldn't he be with you, rather than me?"

"Last time I checked, John didn't own a motorcycle, and I know for a fact that he considers them suicidal given the number of traffic fatalities that occur due to their use. A bike like yours is crucial to my plan. You _look_ the part, and I can get in with the bikers easier if they aren't suspicious."

"You think I look like a biker?" The role of a detective inspector these days had managerial responsibilities as well as duties dealing with the public so he cultivated an aura of be-suited but approachable professional. Lestrade was secretly pleased that Sherlock thought he looked like someone who could be a biker; it seemed more macho and youthful than his day job. To be honest, he had been passionate about the bike twenty years ago, and enjoyed being a bit of a lad on it, but the opportunities to keep it up had faded over time. Still, the thought of selling his Norton would be too much of a formal goodbye to his youthful days as a boy racer.

"Well, yes- there is something about someone in obviously worn biker's leathers astride an antique Norton that kind of projects the correct image, doesn't it? I assume you still have both? And I still have my kit." Sherlock gestured to the sports bag at his feet.

Lestrade found himself touched by the fact that Sherlock had kept the leathers for the years since the two of them had last ventured out. It had been during the second time that the Detective Inspector had banned Sherlock from crime scenes for a month due to his cocaine addiction. What was different this time is that instead of going into rehab as his brother demanded, Sherlock had talked Greg into sleeping on Sherlock's sofa for the weekend while he came down and put it all behind him, again. Withdrawal from cocaine was less physically awful than from heroin, but depression and anxiety were common side effects. Without cases to keep him occupied, Lestrade had given Sherlock the keys to his bike and told him to get out in some fresh air. He'd never asked where Sherlock had gone, but he often thought that the young man's encyclopaedic knowledge of London's road network might have been born in those four weeks.

He finished the coffee and pulled on his sweatshirt, then rummaged around in the bottom of his wardrobe for the set of leathers and boots. When he reappeared, he looked the part. Sherlock just looked at him, really looked at him, with the usual forensic intensity he reserved for corpses, and Greg frowned a bit at him, self-consciously.

"You'll do."

Greg decided that was as close to a compliment as Sherlock would ever get. He crossed his arms and watched Sherlock feed his lanky limbs into skin tight leathers. _You have no idea what a picture you are, Sherlock Holmes._ It was one of the oddest things that Greg had realised years ago, when he first met Sherlock. The young man had no idea what effect his looks had on the people around him. _All that forensic insight, and he's totally blind to how people see him._ Or maybe not, as the first thing that Sherlock seemed to do when meeting new people was to open his mouth and offend them. _Back off; I may look nice, but I bite! _ It took a person with remarkable patience, a thick skin and more than a little self-interest to hang around the younger Holmes brother. Greg's clear up rate was one of the highest on the force, but he knew that at times that success had been purchased at the expense of his own and his team's feelings. Despite Sherlock's now ritual abuse of his intelligence, Lestrade was actually very good at his job, and in his ability to read Sherlock like a book.

_And this book is telling me something interesting right now._ The fact that Sherlock had not blasted him with facts at a mile a minute suggested that this plan of his was probably risky. The fact that he had not involved John was further testament to the fact that it was probably _very_ risky. _John would possibly have stopped him, so he has come to me instead, and hopes to keep me in the dark until it's too late to argue_.

Lestrade's arms were still crossed against his chest, leaning up against the kitchen doorframe when Sherlock realised that he wasn't being followed out of the flat. He stopped and looked back at the DI.

"Right, now that I've got your attention, Sherlock, gimme a rundown, or this show will not get on the road. You promised an explanation, and I'm not going anywhere until I get it."

Sherlock glared at him, but the silver haired detective was immovable. What happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object? Lestrade was about to find out.


	37. Chapter 37

**Chapter Thirty Seven: Stockbrokers' Courier Part Two: London to Brighton Run**

* * *

Sherlock huffed. "We're wasting time. We have to be in Brighton by eight."

"Nope, I'm not budging until you tell me what's going on."

"Oh, ye of little faith, Detective Inspector." He stared at the DI, who just calmly looked him back straight in the eye. They had lots of previous experience with this sort of stand-off, starting when Sherlock was detoxing, but it was a strange combination of prickly argument with professional respect that had grown over the years into a rarely-voiced mutual affection.

In the end, it was Sherlock who broke the deadlock. "Oh, all right then- have it your way!" His frustration meant that he now ripped through his explanation at break neck speed, as if daring the DI to keep up with him. "There've been four incidents when important documents – negotiable bearer bonds- have gone missing from stockbrokers. Not the same firm, each time a different one; it was inexplicable despite the brokers' own in-house investigations. The sums involved were not small- usually around £100,000 transactions – but in the great scheme of things for brokers these days, tiny losses which the firm made good. They were only discovered when the bonds that were subsequently traded by the client were discovered to be forgeries. Nobody has been able to figure out when the swaps were made, and the bogus bonds substituted for the real thing. You know that brokers are loathe to report these thefts to either the police or the Financial Services Authority; bad publicity when client monies go missing. So, none of the four realised that there was a pattern."

All this had been delivered by Sherlock in a single breath, so Greg found it amusing that the detective was forced to drag in fresh oxygen before he could continue. Taking advantage of the tiny gap, Lestrade decided to jump in. "So, how'd you find out about it? Lose some money?"

Sherlock snorted. "Of course not. I don't handle any investments; that's all Mycroft's area. And you know damn well that he keeps me on a tight financial leash."

"Well, you did have a problem with banking your allowance up your arm for a while; can't blame him for being a little cautious." Lestrade kept his sarcasm light, but he made his point.

Sherlock just waved in annoyance. "This is nothing to do with me. Well, I say that, but actually I found out about it because one of the clients- a banker- contacted me when his investment got ripped off. He was the old acquaintance from university whose employee got involved with that Chinese smuggling case- Sebastian Wilkes; you never met him, the case was handled by DI Dimmock."

He rushed on before Lestrade could interrupt again. "It's taken me a little while, but I have been able to unearth these other three thefts, and I expect there are others that other larger brokers won't admit to- probably because the banks that own them would get rather annoyed."

"So, you have an idea of how it's being done?"

"Yes, and the best way to prove it is to do it. So, hence our need to get to Brighton."

"I'm not following your thinking here. What's in Brighton?"

"Oh for God's sake, Lestrade, if we don't get onto that bike of yours soon, we will hit rush hour traffic and we'll never get there in time. Once we clear London, we can stop to re-fuel and I will explain more."

Greg's Norton was kept in a lock up garage behind the block of flats. His car had gone with the wife when they split up, and the police provided a company car, so he seldom had need for the bike. Nevertheless, as Greg pulled off the dust cloth over the machine, Sherlock could see that every piece of chrome gleamed with the love and attention of a bike-mad devotee. It was a Norton P11A 750cc Ranger-it still drew admiring glances whenever he took it out for a spin, which, to be honest, he wished he did more often.

As the DI wheeled the bike out of the garage behind the flat, he wore a smile at the thought of tearing down the road to Brighton. London traffic moved at an average of 12 miles an hour, whether you were riding a bicycle or driving a Porsche, so it did not give much scope for speed. He rarely had a reason to take the bike out of London, so he was looking forward to the excuse of hitting the motorway. There was only one thing nagging at his conscience- Sherlock had said the best way to prove how the crimes were being done would be "to do it". That worried Lestrade no end and he kept coming back to that thought as he ploughed his way across London's early morning traffic- lorries trying to beat their delivery deadlines, commuters trying to get in before the congestion charges started meant that traffic in London was almost always busy, day and night. He had to concentrate on the road. Behind him, Sherlock moved with him as he leaned into turns; he had not forgotten how to mirror the driver's weight distribution. Greg knew from experience that Sherlock did not like touching or being touched, but he felt the younger man's hands at his hips making sure that the two riders worked together. Lestrade was an inch and half shorter than Sherlock, but he was sixteen years older and had a lot more experience on the bike, so there was never an argument as to which of them would be in front.

Only once they got past the South Circular Road did the DI return to the problem of what Sherlock had said about the crime they would be investigating. While in the past he might have been willing to turn a blind eye to Sherlock's bending the rules so long as it did not prejudice a case, the idea of becoming an accessory to a crime was just ten steps too far from where a Detective Inspector needed to be- especially if it involved another police force. Relations between the Met and the City of London police force were fraught at the best of times. When a square mile of territory right in the middle of London was under another force's jurisdiction, it inevitably led to disputes. Only the fact that there were more banks, stockbrokers and insurance companies than actual residents inside that square mile kept the two forces from stepping on each other's toes. Financial crime was pretty sophisticated these days, and required specialist training, so New Scotland Yard tended to just let them do their own thing.

He glanced down at the Ranger's petrol gauge; Sherlock was right. Greg never left a lot of petrol in the tank; he used the bike so rarely that it would either evaporate or just pose a fire risk. They would need to re-fuel soon. He decided to pull into a service station on the A23, between Streatham and Norbury. It took only moments to fill the bike's tank, but he used the opportunity to remove his crash helmet and gestured to Sherlock to do the same.

"Ok, tell me what happens in Brighton. Where are we going, and who is down there that matters for a series of thefts in the City?"

Sherlock hesitated. That worried Lestrade more than anything. Sherlock _never_ hesitated.

"The thefts are being done by motorcycle couriers. Never the same courier company, and never the same stockbroker. I've been trying to figure out how they do it, and think that it is related to the fact that almost anyone in a set of leathers and a crash helmet looks like everyone else in the same gear; it's a perfectly anonymous disguise. Substituting a thief for the real courier only needs someone on the inside to organise it. Deduction suggests it's a temp, a secretary or assistant who can work in different brokers, spot the opportunity and then organise a pick up when she knows that her partner is ready to take the place of a bone fide courier. Someone like that could ensure that the bogus courier shows up with the right company logo on the leathers, the right brand on the collection pouch so it doesn't arouse suspicions. The thefts have been happening at two month intervals, which is long enough to spot the opportunity, organise the theft and then move on."

"Why did you hesitate? You _never _hesitate. What's wrong with this?"

Sherlock gave a tiny wry smile. "It's pure deduction- there is absolutely _no_ evidence at all."

"My God, Sherlock. Are you actually admitting to _guessing?!"_

The younger man scowled at him. "No. I don't _guess_. I deduce."

Lestrade looked thoughtful. "That still doesn't explain Brighton. Why are we headed there?"

That raised a little smirk. "Because there is a biker's rally down there today; it's an annual event that pits teams from the main City courier companies against one another. Odds are that our bogus courier and his insider are going to be down there, spotting opportunities. It's most likely that the thief is someone who has worked with at least a couple of the firms. He has to know the procedures, have the right paperwork, be familiar with the different routines and security arrangements. If he is sensible, he will be down there touting for work, and so will we."

Lestrade realised that Sherlock had hesitated because he was grasping at straws. "And, just how, amongst dozens and dozens of bikers, are you going to be able to figure out which two are your thieves? Sounds like you're hunting for a needle in a haystack."

"Oh, that's the easy part, Lestrade. You'll just have to trust me on that." He got off the bike and went into the petrol station to pay.


	38. Chapter 38

**Chapter Thirty Eight: The Stockbrokers' Courier Part Three: Rally Round**

* * *

The premise of the rally was simple: the big bike courier companies competed against each other in a kind of treasure hunt, picking up and delivering packets to pre-set destinations without knowing where they were supposed to be going next until they got there. Each of the five big companies had a dispatcher managing teams of five bikes, and each bike had two riders- one to pick up, the other to plot the route. None of the bikers really knew the area well, given their normal beats were in London. Sat nav for bikers relied on mobile phone technology, and no app ever had the home-grown knowledge, such as where a short cut through a parking lot could cut minutes off a journey, or how to avoid the longest traffic lights in town. It was a test of teamwork and a bit like rally car driving, where the navigator was almost as important as the driver. The order of the destinations was different for each bike pair; what mattered were the minutes clocked up between stops, which were tallied at the end of the rally- the team with the lowest time won.

"Our chance comes from the fact that there are always at few scratch teams." Sherlock explained the rules over a cup of coffee at Redroaster, down a little side street of Brighton's main north/south road. They had almost seventy minutes to go before registration opened for the rally, and Lestrade had insisted on a breakfast. Sherlock used the time to brief him. "Courier companies don't like to have a lot of permanent employees, so they hire casual labour for the busy periods. It's quite possible for one self-employed courier to work for several different companies, and that's who I am banking on as our suspect. The rally teams will be permanent staff, but the contractors club together to form at least one five bike team of their own. And the dispatcher of the scratch team owes me a favour, so I've entered us as one of them."

Greg smirked. "So, far from finding a needle in a haystack, if there's only one scratch team, you're actually guessing that one of the other four bike pairs is our suspect, or nine pairs if there are two teams?"

Sherlock looked at the detective with an annoyed frown. "Guessing? What part of my work for you has ever involved _guessing_?" He sniffed, "Really, Lestrade if you intend to carry on criticising my methods, I just might start favouring another detective at the yard with my deductive skills- could make you a little less complacent if someone like Dimmock starts challenging your clear-up rates."

Greg smirked. "You're not the only one who can wind someone up, Sherlock. I just like rattling the bars of your cage occasionally."

Sherlock glowered, but Lestrade could recognise when he was actually playing along with the tease rather than being really offended. They had spent enough time in each other's company over the years to be able to banter like this. He sat back and took a long pull at the take-away latte, then devoured his second almond croissant in a series of quick bites. "You really should eat something you know; that brain of yours needs some fuel other than coffee." Sherlock had inhaled a double espresso in two seconds flat. "You'd mainline caffeine if you could, wouldn't you?"

Sherlock didn't reply. He was looking out the window, keeping an eye on the parked bike, which had drawn admiring glances from the morning commuters walking to work. Greg just watched him, enjoying how the morning light fell on the angles of that face, and the unruly dark hair now freed from the confines of his crash helmet. So often at a crime scene, Sherlock was in constant motion, and Greg was on duty, so they rarely had a chance to spend any time in silent companionship. Now that John was sharing Baker Street with Sherlock, the consulting detective had stopped seeking out Greg's company when he needed an audience or just someone around to stave off the cravings. That had been their relationship before John, but Greg did not resent seeing Sherlock less, given the obvious fact that he was doing just fine now. The young man had put on weight, and had a normal pallor instead of that grey wasted look when he had been on his own, pushing himself too far for too long. Greg had long ago learned the signs of a danger night, and been so relieved that since John arrived, those times seemed to have passed. He thought to himself that the idea of a flat share had been a master-stroke, but thanked luck for crossing John Watson's path with Sherlock's. No one could have predicted that.

The older man smiled to himself. Yes, it had been something of a roller-coaster ride, knowing Sherlock over the years. He'd seen him high, low and everywhere in between. He'd seen him ecstatic at scenes that would turn a normal person's blood cold. _Normal is not a word I would apply to him._

In the early days, he found Sherlock alternately fascinating and frightening, and so clearly in need of some sort of anchor. The DI also vacillated between thinking Mycroft was a saint for putting up with his brother and knowing that Mycroft was also the villain responsible for at least a significant part of the problem. He and Mycroft had come to an understanding over the years, with the older Holmes now realising that Lestrade could be trusted to put Sherlock's well-being above his need to solve cases.

Above all else, Greg was continually amazed by Sherlock's unique gifts, and willing to put up with the peculiarities and eccentricities that drove the rest of his team wild. Thanks to his nephew Sam, he knew the challenges that people like Sherlock would always face. What impressed Greg then and still did every day he spent time in his company, was how Sherlock managed to turn what most people saw as a mental handicap into quite profound genius. Greg just liked to see that mind at work- it was fascinating.

The object of his musing suddenly stood up and grabbed his crash helmet. "Come on," Sherlock said with some impatience. "You've had enough time to eat and drink coffee; we've got work to do."


	39. Chapter 39

**Chapter Thirty Nine: The Stockbrokers' Courier Part Four: Start Your Engines**

* * *

By the time they got to the rally start on Marine Parade, there were easily thirty bikers already there, queuing for registration, getting their racing numbers on, and there were lots of bystanders milling about, looking at the bikes and enjoying the atmosphere. There was banter between the courier teams- most of them knew each other quite well from years of bumping into each other in the delivery rooms of banks, solicitors and other companies. Sherlock barged the queue at the registration tent and managed to get out in record time, bearing two purple plastic bibs with numbers on them.

"We're the first of the scratch team pairs to register; our dispatcher is over there." He gestured toward a line-up of tables under a marquee, full of radio handsets on charge. As Greg brought the bike around, Sherlock went to the fourth station along and shook hands with a big bloke with a full beard. It was mostly brown but going grey in places, and when he stood to shake Sherlock's hand, Lestrade could see that he had a prosthetic leg below his right knee. Sherlock introduced the man. "This is Rob, he's dispatching the two scratch teams." He then introduced Lestrade. "This is Lestrade, he'll be my driver."

The bearded man looked Greg over and then his eyes lit up as he saw Greg's bike. "Och- she's a beauty! Well, anybody who is Sherlock's friend is my friend, so welcome aboard." As Sherlock picked up two radio sets and turned to leave, Rob called out "Hey laddie, you know I'm counting on you. You've got the knowledge to beat the pants off these Sassenachs. I just hope your driver can take crazy instructions without arguing." He waved them off good naturedly.

"What's a one-legged Scotsman doing down here running biker teams, and where on earth did you two meet?" Greg's didn't bother to disguise his surprise to Sherlock, who was slipping on the number bib over his leather jacket.

Sherlock explained as he fitted a Velcro holster to the bib and slipped the radio in, as if he had been doing it for years. Greg followed his lead. "I've known Rob since I was homeless; met him he had an accident in front of where I was busking. He came off his bike at speed and people were hanging about not knowing what to do while waiting for the ambulance. I realised he was a diabetic, so got him to eat some candy. They couldn't save his leg- pulverised the tibia into mush- but he claims I saved his life. I didn't do that- I just saw the truth while other idiots observed an injured man who was acting drunk. His fall was caused by a diabetic shock."

Greg smiled. It was typical Sherlock- to have done something amazing, but then dismiss it whilst at the same time accusing other people of being idiots. "What now?"

"Now, we wait. And _observe,_Lestrade. as best you can; you may actually learn to _see_ someday. I want a good look at the other nine scratch bike pairs. We're looking for any male-female combination."

oOo

Out of the nine other scratch biker pairs, there were only three that involved a male-female mix. As they turned up and collected the purple bibs and their radios from Rob, Sherlock was in full deducing mode, scrutinising their every move. As the clock moved closer to 10am, the teams gathered round. Rob made introductions, Sherlock instantly deleted any of the names for the male pairings, but Greg watched as he introduced himself to the three mixed pairs. As ever, he found it amusing to watch Sherlock pour on the charm. He could act 'normal' whenever it suited him. Greg knew it to be an act, but also realised that what others more critical might see as the manipulation inherent of a sociopath, the detective inspector accepted as an essential undercover tool.

When Sherlock returned to Greg at the bike, he said quietly, "Pair numbers Four and Nine are the ones to watch. Pair Six is not likely; the woman's hands are those of a manual worker; her nails alone would disqualify her from being a City temp." Greg snuck a quick look at the two pairs picked out by Sherlock. Number four was a tall bloke with a couple of days of designer stubble, who was standing with a rather shapely blonde. Sherlock filled in the details, "Tom and Cheryl Conrad- brother and sister, a likely combination for this scam." When Greg looked at Pair Nine, he saw a dark-haired couple, possibly Mediterranean in origin. Sherlock continued, "Meet Alexi Psarra and Timos Aristopolis. Greek, and engaged, making money in London for the wedding next summer back home in Athens." Greg grinned at the consulting detective, "Ah, we have motive, although if Tom Conrad is paying alimony, my money is on him." Lestrade was still feeling the effects of his divorce.

The PA system came on with a feedback squeal, as the race organiser welcomed the bikers. The teams were told to keep their engines off but wheel their bikes to the starting line, where they would be getting their instructions for their first destination from despatchers.

Sherlock told him not to try for a front position, just mid-way in the pack, but on the extreme right. When Greg looked confused, Sherlock explained. "We won't know until we get the first destination whether we want to go ahead or turn around and go in the opposite direction. Being in the front would be a disadvantage in that case."

"You sound like you've done this before."

Sherlock smirked as he put on the crash helmet. "Well, the betting pool has already made us favourites."

Greg looked astonished. "Why would they do that?"

"I have worked as a freelance courier before. Cocaine is expensive, Lestrade. And how else do you think I learned so much about London's roads and where all the cameras are? You never check the milometer on your bike, do you?"

Greg was horrified. Years ago, Sherlock had been absconding with the Norton, to help fuel his drug habit? It beggared belief. He chose to focus instead on recent history. "You've done this rally before?"

"Yes, it's done every year in a different location. While most couriers just study the road maps, I think in 3D, so spent some time last week working on Google street view. I swept the pool last year- it was in Cambridge, so I did have a rather unfair advantage, but it paid for the new laptop, smart phone and microscope."

The PA squawked again. "Couriers, start your engines!"

Greg kicked the Norton to life as the radio attached to their bibs crackled. Rob came on and gave them their first destination: Lloyds Bank Branch, North Street.

"That's in the Lanes," Sherlock shouted to be heard over the roar of the other bikes. "Make a U turn and head straight west along the coast road." Greg opened the throttle, and shouted back, "hang on!"


	40. Chapter 40

**Chapter Forty: Stockbrokers' Courier Part Five: Treasure Hunt**

* * *

Greg learned very quickly that Sherlock's street knowledge of Brighton was almost as good as London. And he also learned why Sherlock was likely to win this event as easily as he did last year when it was in Cambridge. The consulting detective did not worry about things like pedestrian-only zones, one way streets and other niceties. He was just as likely to tell Greg to take a short cut straight through a car park, shopping mall or down an alley way full of delivery vans as he was to go on an obvious road. When he shouted "turn left after that white parked car", Greg ended up bouncing the Norton Ranger down a set of stairs to the street below, just to shave off a couple of minutes that would have been needed to access the road legally.

When Greg got to the bottom of the stairs, he turned back to shout at Sherlock. "We could get arrested for that, you know!"

"Not a chance, Lestrade. The local police know that any traffic violations they tried to prosecute would just end up clogging the courts. Everyone agrees to turn a blind eye for a morning, unless someone actually hits something, or someone. Actually, couriers are very safe law-abiding drivers, or they'd lose their livelihoods. It's only amateurs like me who will bend the rules quite so ruthlessly. Just be careful to avoid pedestrians, will you? Now get going, we're losing time."

At each destination, Sherlock vaulted off the back of the motorbike, ran into the business and got his clipboard stamped, picking up at the same time the next destination from Rob, who could only release the info on receipt of the code word unique to that destination and team. By the time Sherlock was on the back of the Ranger again, he had already plotted out their journey. No sat nav would ever be fast enough to compete with Sherlock's brain speed. While other navigators were keying in post codes and street names into their phones, Sherlock had already figured out exactly which roads were likely to be clearest at this particular time of day, and what traffic lights were so long that going a different route involving a greater distance would actually turn out to be faster.

Greg's only comment when they picked up their third code word was "They should think about handicapping you- it's too easy for you to run circles around the other teams." Sherlock smirked, "Don't tell me you're complaining, Lestrade; you're loving every minute of this. Confess- this beats that trip to Tesco you were thinking about." That made Greg laugh out loud.

As they roared from one to another of their destinations, Greg spotted other teams going about their business. The whole point of the race marshalling was to ensure that every team had a different order, so few of the teams ever ended up at the same destination at the same time, so how this was supposed to be revealing which of the teams were the scam artists behind the stockbroker thefts, the DI had his doubts. Maybe Sherlock just wanted someone to share in the fun.

When they crossed the finish line and handed the clipboard with the nine stamps on it, Rob was there to clap them in. "Always knew you'd do it, laddie. And that Norton is just suited to the hare-brained routes I'm sure you took."

Sherlock pulled off the crash helmet and shook his hair out. "What odds did you get in the end?"

"The best I could get you is a 3-to-5, so your bet returns you only £200 more than you bet." The big man handed over the cash. "Sherlock, you're going to have to come in disguise next year if you want to earn more."

Sherlock told Greg that he needed to watch as the other teams to come in. "Their reactions to their finishing positions will tell me a lot, and possibly enough to decide whether Pair 4 or Pair 9 is the prime suspect. Just go get a cup of coffee- or better still, have lunch. That way we won't have to stop on the way back."

Greg chose to have a sandwich and a soft drink at the café across the road from the finishing line on Marine Parade. That way, he could keep his eye on Sherlock and on the teams as they came in. He just had time to order his tuna mayonnaise baguette and settle into his seat looking out over the waterfront before the second team came across the finishing line. Thereafter, the teams came in rapid sequence, the two suspect scratch teams tearing across the last 100 meters in an almost dead heat. Greg finished his sandwich, downed the last of his drink and was crossing the road back to where Sherlock was lounging against the Norton Ranger. No sooner did the dark-haired pair hand their clipboard over to the race officials than the woman on the back had ripped her helmet off and started shouting in Greek at her fiancé.

By the time he reached Sherlock, the Greek man was shouting back at her. Greg looked enquiringly at Sherlock.

"Yes, Lestrade, my school taught Classical Greek, and the modern language was a breeze after that. These two are now the prime suspects. She's berating him for not taking the right turn on the last stop, and he's shouting back at her that she doesn't know her left from her right. They're both angry about losing money on a very large bet, and she just said they'd have to, and I quote, 'find another one soon' end quote."

"Well, that's pretty suspicious, I grant you that. What happens next?"

Sherlock smirked. "It's been bothering you, hasn't it? What I said back in London about the best way to catch the criminals is to do the crime myself? Well you can relax, _Detective Inspector._" If his emphasis on the title was a bit firm, Greg chose not to be offended by it. Sherlock was right, of course, the idea had worried Greg.

"You and I now head back to London. I will contact the various brokers' compliance departments to see where she is temping at the moment. Once I get the details about where she is working, I will get them to put her under surveillance. As they just lost a bundle betting on themselves, they will probably try again sometime next week, as soon as she spots another bearer bond going across her desk. In fact, I might even be able to talk the Compliance Manager of whichever firm she is temping with to lay a trap. When she phones her fiancé, I will show up first, in the right courier company gear and take custody of the package, before her boyfriend can get there. Then when he shows up, the City police can arrest them both, and I will pass over the evidence- with the leads to all the other cases. Getting them to confess to the others should be easy; now that we know who is involved, the evidence trail will be easy to pick up, and the other brokers won't be given a choice about keeping it quiet once the police know. Case closed."

He looked at the older man with a satisfied smile, and handed over an envelope. "Here's your half of our winnings, Lestrade. If you want to get back home to your shopping, laundry and cleaning, we should start now to be back to London before the rush hour starts." He put his crash helmet back on and slipped onto the back of the bike.

oOo

Greg dropped Sherlock off at Baker Street. The DI was still smiling by the time he rolled the Norton back into the garage. The day had been a pleasant outing, indeed. Nobody died, no one ended up in hospital, no crime had been committed, a case had been solved and he and Sherlock had ...fun. Well, he had anyway. Sherlock would probably have simply seen it as "useful". Whatever floated his boat, Greg decided, but secretly hoped there would be more like it in the future.


	41. Chapter 41

**Chapter Forty One**

**Author's note**: a hiatus for this story line as another gets underway. But, don't stop following this one, because it _will_ resume. There is much to discover ahead including

-Lestrade's watching DI Dimmock work with Sherlock and John on the Blind Banker case

-his reaction to Sherlock in The Great Game

-Greg's very brief involvement (off camera) to the Scandal in Belgravia, including taking photos of Sherlock when he is still under the influence of Irene's drug

-The DI's decision to go to Devon to keep an eye on Sherlock during the Hound case

And, of course, several stories around the Reichenbach period, including the case that led to the arrest of Interpol's most wanted Mafia criminal, the DI's thoughts about Moriarty and the break into the crown jewels. Plus, the kidnapping and the arrest.

So, seven to ten or so still to come- more, if people request things not listed above.

In the meantime, do check out a short new series called _**Still Talking When You're Not There**_, which covers conversations between Sherlock and John after the Fall, before the Reunion. These and occasional one shots posted on the _**Ex Files**_ will keep you entertained while I build up enough chapters in Level Up. Yes, at long last, returning to the story started in _**Collateral Damage**_, carried on in _**Sidelined**_, and now just about to get under way in a week or so.

I do want to thank all my loyal reviewers out there- your comments help me know what works and what doesn't, what you're interested in. You are all fine, very fine people, and I am grateful.


	42. Chapter 42

**Exposed 2011**

* * *

"Sit here and drink the hot chocolate, while I get things sorted." Lestrade settled his fourteen year old nephew into the chair behind his desk at New Scotland Yard, and then shouldered off his own coat, hanging it up alongside the jacket he'd taken from the boy moments before. Sam was already poking at the keyboard of the PC by the time Greg turned around, so he came around the desk and logged on, calling up the internet as quickly as he could. He watched his nephew's hunched shoulders start to relax as his hands flew over the keyboard, pulling up the pages of the latest Formula 1 sports news.

It was Bring a Child to Work Day, the fourth Tuesday in April. His sister Carole had arranged this weeks ago.

"Greg, I took him into the Library with me when he was twelve. Last year, it was Steven's turn, but Sam wasn't particularly impressed. Came back and said his dad 'played with a computer all day, and got paid to do it.' I've tried to get him off the computer long enough to engage with other people, so he wanted to know why it was OK for his dad but not for him. The school says it's important to give him as wide an exposure to different kinds of work environments as possible. As long as you promise not to take him to a crime scene where there is a body or blood, I think he can handle this."

Greg had spent half the night worrying about it. Sam did not like crowds of people he didn't know. He didn't like places that were unfamiliar. Both made him anxious. Carole had been firm, though. "He has to learn, Greg, we can't wrap him up forever; he has to find a way to tough it out. You've taken him lots of places one-on-one. He knows you. You'll be his anchor. As long as you don't disappear, he will be OK. And, if he does have a problem, I know I can count on you to help him sort it out. That's what this experience is supposed to be all about."

He'd agreed, because he liked Sam and wanted to do what he could to help his sister. But, looking around New Scotland Yard's offices, he worried whether it would prove in practice to be as good as it had sounded in theory. His team were currently trying to solve a murder that happened ten days ago, when the body of a security guard at a South Kensington Gallery was found hanging from the Albert Bridge in Chelsea.

The Met's Arts and Antiques Squad was now involved as well as his own team, because the murder might be connected to a large art smuggling ring, which had been behind the theft of masterpieces by Monet, Picasso, Matisse, Gaugin and Perugino in a single daring raid in Rotterdam last year. That was Sherlock's deduction anyway, and he'd spent the last week in the Netherlands trying to track down that side of the case. He was due back today, and Greg hoped he'd come into the Yard, as his was another familiar face that Sam would know.

Over the past three years, Sherlock had taken a quiet interest in the boy, and spent several of the days with Greg when he'd been babysitting Sam for his sister. Generally speaking, Sam didn't "like" people of any sort, but he and Sherlock had a way of relating that worked. Greg was only glad that Carole didn't know about it; he wasn't sure that she'd approve of the way the consulting detective dealt with Sam. Sherlock never followed any of the rules or procedures that Carole had taught Greg to use when looking after Sam.

Greg looked into the team room from his office. People were beginning to drift in, coffees in hands, the odd doughnut, pastry or muffin in a bag- the breakfast of choice for the Met Murder Investigation Team that he ran. Greg had got her early to make sure that Sam could get settled, rather than walk into an already busy place full of faces he did not recognise.

He'd called a team briefing for 9am- needed a progress update from the various people working of different parts of the investigation. Unusually, Anderson and another Crime Scene Examiner from the Forensic Service would also attend today to shed light on some new evidence that had come to light after the second post mortem. That had been called at Sherlock's request. The text message from Rotterdam was simple- check body for blue pigment, + organ damage.

By 8.55, Greg judged there were enough people in the room – but not too many for Sam to cope with, so he called his nephew away from his PC. Making no eye contact, he just said quietly, "this is the hard part, Sam. We've got to go in there and introduce you, so they know who you are and why you are here. After that, they won't be curious and I can get them focused on their work. If it bothers you that they are all looking at you, just keep your eyes on me. Can you do that?" Sam looked down at the floor and gave a small nod of his head.

Greg walked to the front of the room with Sam dogging his heels. Everyone looked up from their desks and the various places they'd perched around the room for the briefing- there were never enough chairs to go around, but it didn't matter because the briefings seldom took more than fifteen minutes or so. They all eyed the young boy curiously- he wasn't the usual sort of person they'd expect to see in the team room.

Greg took a deep breath. "Ok, this is my nephew, Sam Morgan, and he is here today with me. It's the fourth Tuesday in April, and that's Take a Child to Work Day for those of you unlucky enough not to have kids of your own or family's, who can benefit from the experience. He won't bite, and I've told him you've all had your rabies shots." A little ripple of amusement went through the group assembled. "He's going to be shadowing me today, but if he does ask you a question, do the decent thing and answer, without too much gory detail, please, I don't want him going home telling my sister the truth about what I get up to here." A few knowing smiles appeared; family members didn't always understand what a MIT officer did, and what they didn't know, didn't hurt them.

Just then Sally Donovan came in with CSE Anderson in tow. Greg just looked pointedly at the clock- late again. Sally had the sense to look a bit sheepish; Anderson just shrugged off Lestrade's glare.

"Right, now that we're _all_ here, Anderson, give us the news about what you found when the body was re-examined."

Anderson smirked, happy to take the floor. He liked showing off to the officers his specialist forensic knowledge. "The re-examination was …." he paused here dramatically, "…inconclusive."

There was a collective groan. The other seven officers in the room needed a lead, and they needed it soon, or they were going to go crazy waiting for a breakthrough.

Anderson continued. "I have no idea what the Freak was trying to do, except to make us all run around in circles, but there was no blue paint on the body of the security guard, and no sign of organ damage from poisoning. We were sent on a wild goose chase, yet again."

Lestrade rubbed his forehead. "All right, people. Anyone got any other ideas? How did your enquires go with the fences?" He directed this toward PC Sanders, who was on secondment to the team from the Arts & Antiques Squad, who just shook his head. "Sorry, sir; not a whisper. I'm not convinced these five paintings have ever been in the country, and I don't see the connection with the security guard's death. I mean the Galliardi Gallery isn't into Impressionist painters or an Old Master like Perugino; the people running it are too busy selling cheap modern stuff to Middle Eastern buyers with more money than good taste."

Lestrade turned to PC Johnson. "What have you managed to dig up on the guard?"

"James Souter- 24 years old, Londoner. University graduate, but unable to get a job, until he took up security work at the Gallery. His mum knows one of the people who run it. Quiet guy, still living at home. No gambling debts, doesn't make enough to start paying off his university loans yet. Kind of a nobody, really."

Out of the corner of his eye, Greg saw Sam turn away from the people in the room. He was looking at the evidence board. Pride of place went to the five paintings stolen from the Rotterdam museum, with the artist and the dates they were painted underneath each one. The DI hoped the paintings would keep him interested, rather than lingering too long over the set of photos of the dead guard.

He pursed his lips and thought about what the best step forward was.

"Sir?" It was Sally Donovan, so Lestrade just gave her the floor. "What about looking for a different motive? We've been taken down the garden path toward robbery and the paintings from Rotterdam, but there's nothing other than the Freak's word to go on that they're even connected. Our investigation of the gallery owner's background shows he was in debt, and worried about what he owed. Maybe the loan sharks just got sick of waiting, and decided to scare him by trying to steal something from the gallery, and this guard just got in the way. I think we are over-complicating this unnecessarily. If we put more resource into tracking the people he owed money to, we might get somewhere."

Lestrade looked pained, but nodded. "OK, in the absence of any other ideas at this stage, take a look at those leads today, will you Donovan? Get back to me if you find anything. The rest of you need to close off the files. Anderson, don't go until you've finished the report in writing. An oral statement isn't enough." The CSE grimaced; he preferred the crime scene work, and delegated a lot of the form filling and report writing to one the Forensic team's more junior people.

The meeting was over, so people drifted to their various jobs. Greg turned to Sam, who was still riveted to the Evidence Board. He heard the phone in his office ring, so he just said quietly as he passed the boy, "I'll be in my office for a few minutes, you okay here?" Sam just nodded.

oOo

The call took longer than he thought it would. A witness on another investigation was threatening to sue the Met for harassment, so Lestrade had to spend a while getting the full story out. Sam drifted to one of the computers at an unoccupied desk, and started to do some internet research. Greg saw it, and relaxed. The boy would be out of trouble for a while.

He didn't notice when ten minutes later, Sam got up and walked over to where Anderson was ponderously typing in his report. "Excuse me, but, was ultramarine on the body?"

Anderson looked up. "Who are you?"

Sam didn't meet his eye, but just looked down to the side. "Sam." He gestured to Lestrade's office. "He's my uncle…ultramarine?"

Anderson just snickered. "Look, sonny, forensic investigation is a little complicated, so just take it from me, there was no paint involved." He returned to his typing.

The boy didn't leave. Anderson heard a little sigh. "Pigment, ultramarine; not paint."

Anderson looked at him again. Then he frowned at Sally Donovan who was just finished a telephone call. "I don't care whether you are the DI's nephew, you still are annoying me and stopping me from finishing this report, so best return to playing games on that computer over there and stay out of the way."

Rebuffed, Sam started to back away, still not looking at Anderson, who was beginning to realise that something wasn't quite…_normal_ about the boy. Most teenage boys would have said something smart mouthed, or made a rude gesture if they'd been told off.

Sam had taken a few steps away, but stopped. He turned and addressed the air somewhere above where Anderson was sitting. "Ultramarine. You make it with lye; it burns. That's what Sherlock said to look for."

Sally stood up, and approached Sam. "You know the Freak?" Anderson sniggered quietly behind her, "it takes one to know one." Sally laughed. The boy might not have heard the words, but he caught the tone of the man's voice and he blinked in confusion. He hugged his arms to himself and turned away from the pair of them.

"Anderson, you are a first class prat." The baritone voice cut across the room.

It was Sally who responded first. "Oh, back from your travels then, Freak? Got more blind alleys for us to waste police time investigating?" She looked up at the tall brunet as he swept into the room.

The Consulting Detective ignored her as he strode over to the evidence board. "Interesting, Sam, you are absolutely correct. The ultramarine is the give-away, and the burns on the body were caused by lye. Clever to have found that, well done. Can you spot the other 15th century pigment Anderson should have looked for?" He didn't look at the boy, who had turned with him back towards the board, visibly relaxing the tension in his shoulders.

"HOLMES." Anderson got up from the desk and stalked over, anger and derision in every step. "I told everyone before, there was no paint on the body, no evidence of poison. You were wrong. Just admit it for once."

Taking one look from his office at the coming clash between Sherlock and his least favourite forensic examiner, Greg finished his telephone call in a hurry and came into the room, just in time to hear Sherlock unleash his deductions.

"Anderson, with a brain the size of an ant, it's not surprising that you didn't know what to look for. Did the standard tests for _paint_, did you? This wasn't paint that you use on the outside of a house or a wall, idiot. If you knew anything about colour and art, you'd know that you shouldn't look for acrylics or even oils. Traces of egg would be more likely- it's the binding agent used in that Perugino painting which was painted in 1475; the egg tempura holds the pigments in suspension. And those pigments are natural minerals. So, if you used the standard kit and an ALS light then you won't have found anything, surprise, surprise. Ultramarine- that's the blue in the Madonna's robe by the way- is made from a semiprecious stone called Lapis Lazuli. It's made in a very labour intensive exercise that involves lye- a highly toxic alkaloid which burns, and is responsible for the scar tissue on his hands, which I can see from the photos. Look too for traces of smalt. Oh, but I can see you have absolutely no idea what I am talking about, do you? Tell him, Sam." He smirked.

The boy didn't turn around to look at Sally or Anderson, and he had not realised his uncle was now behind him. "Smalt- that's got ground glass. That makes the blue so saturated. It's…_special_." He didn't hide his enthusiasm.

"Right you are, yet again, Sam. So, Anderson, head back to the morgue and look for the _right_ things this time, including ground glass, lapis and alkaloid poisoning; specifically, pyrrolizidine alkaloidosis which should appear in the smooth muscles and the liver."

Anderson scowled at him, but before he could open his mouth, Lestrade intervened. "Just finish that report you are writing, and then go check out the body again." It was an order, and delivered in a tone that said, _don't argue_.

Sherlock scanned the room and saw the A&A team officer Sanders. He said quietly to the DI. "We need to talk, in private." He gestured toward Lestrade's office.

As soon as the door to his office was closed, Lestrade just leaned back against the desk and watched as the consulting detective began to pace like a caged animal.

"Was Rotterdam helpful?" Greg prompted.

"Yes- very. And the Commissioner is not going to be pleased, Lestrade. Someone in the A&A Squad is turning a blind eye, not Sanders, but I don't think it's wise to make an accusation like that within his ear shot until we've identified the actual culprit. Fake export licenses are changing hands, probably brokered by the officer, most likely in exchange for money, although I can't rule out blackmail. The smuggling ring is run out of the Galliardi Gallery, and it's also providing a money laundering service for clients who want to clean up their money by purchasing bad art and re-selling it at inflated prices. The smugglers are happy to handle stolen goods as well- hence, the heist."

Lestrade looked on wide eyed as the revelations kept coming.

"The Perugino Madonna is the key. It was stolen like the others to order, but while the others were taken off the museum walls, the Madonna was being restored. That's where the guard comes in. Not a guard at all- his real name is Johaness Vanhuysen, and he's Dutch, and an art restorer. His mum does work for the Gallery, and offered his services to finish the restoration before it was sold onto a Japanese buyer. So, if Anderson ever does do his job properly and finds the pigment traces, he will be able to link the body to the theft. Ultramarine used in a fifteenth century Italian painting is very different from modern versions, so should be conclusive."

Greg watched as Sherlock reached one side of the small office, spun on his heel and started the three strides back to the other side, delivering his deductions as if punctuating each step.

"We'll have to set up a sting to catch the Gallery owner, who is the lynchpin of the smuggling ring, but I think I can do that once we get your bent officer into the operation."

The DI interjected, "But, why did the guard- well, your restorer- get killed? I don't get that."

Sherlock just looked at him, as if he'd confessed to being an idiot. "It's obvious, isn't it?"

Lestrade smirked, "No, Sherlock, it isn't. Do I have to get John down here from the clinic to translate your stuff into something approaching normal language, or are you just willing to dumb it down for once?"

Exasperated, Sherlock started off on a long detailed explanation of how the smugglers had fallen out over the five paintings, and how the restorer had been killed to deliver a message from one faction to the other.

oOo

Outside in the team area, Sam drifted away from the Evidence Board to the computer and was using the internet to investigate the chemical composition of different artist pigments. He was trying to figure why ultramarine was not used in the other paintings, even though they had blue in them.

Sally watched the boy hug his knees to his chest while sitting at the keyboard. There was a barely perceptible rocking motion as he watched the screen intently. She turned to Anderson and said very quietly, "Don, there's something not quite right about that kid." The crime scene investigator peered at the boy. "What do you mean?"

"No eye contact, look at the way he's sitting. Lestrade's a bit protective- it all adds up; I think he's in a special school, too; I remember the Guv mentioning it before once a couple of years ago. Learning difficulties or something."

Anderson just snorted. "Yeah, well, Lestrade has a thing about waifs and strays, doesn't he?!"

Sally got up and walked over to where Sam was working, and asked "You know Holmes, then?"

Sam didn't look up, just nodded and carried on scrolling through the PDF he was reading. The rocking became a little more obvious.

"Well, I think you'd better be careful. He's not a good role model."

Sam kept rocking, but slower, and then stopped. "Why?"

"Why what? Do you know what a role model is?" She smirked.

"No, why'd you call him that word?"

She looked blank.

Sam didn't look at her but answered quietly. "Freak."

"Well, I would have thought that was obvious. He's weird. Not normal. He just walks in and tells everyone they're stupid and comes out with the most outlandish stuff. He's rude, aggressive, childish and spoilt."

"But…if he's right, what's it matter how he says it?"

"Sorry ..Sam?" She tried to remember what Sherlock had called the boy. "Just be careful- I mean, Sherlock's not exactly…housetrained. "

Anderson finished typing his report, pressed the print button and decided to join in. "Yeah, kid, that guy is nuts, wacko, psycho, needs to be kept out of polite society."

Sam wouldn't look at him or Sally. "No, that's wrong. He's…brilliant."

"Oh, God, Sally, the kid's got a case of hero-worship for the Freak." Anderson laughed out loud.

Sam looked flustered and brought his arms around his chest. Then he shook his head, saying in a loud voice, "You're wrong."

"Kid, let me explain." Sally wanted to try to smooth things over, wouldn't help her career to get Lestrade annoyed with her, but on the other hand, she wasn't the boy's babysitter either.

Sam got there faster because he was getting angry. "No, you're both wrong. Sherlock is like me, but he's a genius and I wish I was, too."

Sally went still. "What do you mean….like you?"

Sam looked upset, then seemed to get a grip. "My mum says that when people don't understand me, I should tell them that I'm autistic and ask them to be nice. So, I'm asking you, be nice."

Sally was trying to digest this when Anderson asked the question. "Why do you say that Sherlock Holmes is like you? Do you think he's…autistic?"

"He's like me, he told me. We see things differently. He said we have to explain that to people who don't see things as well as we do."

Anderson's face lit up. "Oh My God, SALLY! It fits, it really does! We've been thinking all these years that the guy's a prick and it turns out he's actually a mental defective!"

Sally saw the boy's face crumple. "Don, that wasn't the most tactful…"

But when she turned to look at Anderson, she saw that Sherlock had come up behind the CSE officer and had him in a rather uncomfortable grip, his wrist pinned behind his back. In a voice that was tight with repressed fury, the baritone words came. "With me, officer, I need a word in private, right now."

Sally watched as Anderson was virtually frogmarched into the corridor and out of sight. When she turned back, it was to see the disbelief and disappointment on Lestrade's face. "Detective Sergeant Donovan, I heard that. You and Anderson are to see me later this afternoon about the police service's commitment to equality and diversity. In the meantime, I want you to take an early lunch, and I suggest that you consider very carefully what your explanation is going to be. Sam, come with me, please." He didn't touch the boy, but he held a protective arm between Sam and Sally as the two went back into his office.

Around the corner, out of sight of Sam and the rest, Sherlock pushed Anderson against the wall and placed a hand around the officer's neck.

"Hey!?" Anderson struggled and tried to escape.

Sherlock's grip merely tightened. Not enough to do more than bruise, just enough pressure on the carotid artery to make Anderson light headed.

Even as black dots danced in front of his eyes, Anderson couldn't resist. "Shouldn't you be rocking in a corner somewhere, Freak? Or maybe you're so rude because you used to bang your head against the wall all time."

"Officer." It came out as a baritone purr. "You can be as vile as I expect you to be- to me. But if I ever hear that you have been so cruel to Lestrade's nephew again, then you will have to answer for it. People on the spectrum are not usually a danger to others, but, just so there is no misunderstanding here, there are exceptions, and I am one of them." He applied just a little more pressure, enough to make Don Anderson's knees start to buckle. "Just remember, you're the one who called me a psychopath." Then he released him and turned away.

When Sherlock got into the DI's office, he was calm and collected. "Lestrade, how about if I take Sam with me to the Gallery? I'd like to take a casual look around."

Greg looked at Sam, who nodded vigorously. "Please, I'd like that!"

Greg looked a little sternly at Sherlock. "Only if you can promise that you won't pull any of your usual tricks. No haring off after suspects, or sticking your nose into places that it doesn't belong. You'll have to be a responsible adult, Sherlock."

"You can trust me, Lestrade." Sherlock just smiled and gestured to Sam to follow him. "We'll be back at tea time." He strode out with Sam in tow, talking as they went. "Fancy having lunch at the National Art Gallery? I can show you another Perugino, and we'll talk about pigments. We can get that in before getting to the Galliardi Gallery. Much more interesting than boring routine police work."

Greg watched fondly as two of the most interesting people he knew left the Yard.


	43. Chapter 43

**Author's note: **If you want the back story to this, check out my story,**_ Crossfire_**

* * *

**Chapter 43- Calling the Police in Belgravia Part One**

* * *

Greg was enjoying the last bit of his tuna mayonnaise sandwich at his desk when his mobile phone rang. Caller ID identified it as John Watson, so he answered with his mouth still half full.

"John. Is everything OK?" When there wasn't a case on, it wasn't like the doctor to call him unless there was a problem.

"Sherlock's just fired a gun; his idea of calling the police."

"Christ- whose gun? Anyone hurt? Where are you?"

"26 Boscobel Place, Belgravia. I've already called Mycroft; this could be messy because there is a dead American on the floor of the living room."

Lestrade closed his eyes for a second. In his nightmares, he took a phone call from a hospital to say they'd found a drug overdose victim. Or worse, a morgue to say that Sherlock had been found dead- the victim of some criminal who had just had enough of the consulting detective. But rarely in this imaginings had he thought of Sherlock being arrested for killing someone. He didn't think that the brunet would ever go so far- it would be like an admission that he wasn't smart enough to think his way out of a tight spot.

"Don't touch anything. I'm on my way."

"Wait- Greg- you misunderstood. Sherlock isn't responsible for the dead guy. He didn't fire the gun. In fact," here John seemed to hesitate, "nobody did."

"Are you in shock or something, John, because that didn't make a whole lot of sense!?" Greg could hear the sound of sirens in the background.

"Hurry. I think we're going to need a friend on the force to smooth things over." John hung up.

oOo

It only took ten minutes to get there, but by the time Lestrade arrived, the scene was crawling with police cars, an ambulance and too many armed SO19 officers. Gunfire in one of London's most exclusive residential areas always made the Met nervous. Packed with aristocracy, millionaire immigrants and a sprinkling of embassies and consulates, Belgravia was supposed to be one of the safest parts of town.

He flashed his badge and got through the police cordon, ducking under the tape and in through the front door of Number 26. He was stopped in the hall by a plain-clothes officer, wearing all the hallmarks of SO6. _Uh oh; that mean's something has happened to Sherlock. _His badge was checked, and then he was waved through. To his left, he spotted the medical examiner on his knees beside a body through the door to the drawing room, which was packed with officers. A pair of them was hoisting up a handcuffed but barely conscious man. Before he could walk into the room, his attention was drawn to the sight of a suited man on the hall stairs landing. "Up here, sir. He's in the master bedroom." _One of Mycroft's minions?_

Even before he got through the bedroom door, he could see Watson bent over the figure of Sherlock, lying on floor. There was a para-medic alongside.

"What the hell happened?!" Greg went down on one knee beside Sherlock, his eyes scanning the man for obvious wounds. Sherlock was barely conscious, being held down in the recovery position on his side, but still struggling weakly against John's grip. The para-medic was trying to shine a penlight into his eyes.

John answered tersely. "He was drugged." He was holding an empty syringe, and he handed it to the agent who had followed Lestrade into the room. "Get it tested. As quickly as possible. She said she'd used it on people, presumably her clients, said he would sleep for a few hours. But she also warned me to watch for aspiration."

The paramedic nodded. "My guess is GHB- a pretty hefty dose, given intravenously, so very quick acting. At first, it makes them a bit dopey, but soon enough the other effects should emerge."

"Which are?" John glared at the paramedic, who looked a bit surprised.

"I thought you said you're a doctor."

"Yes, but I'm a trauma surgeon- so date rape drugs aren't exactly in my repertoire. Look- it matters, because he's not neuro-typical, and can have paradoxical reactions to drugs. So, I need to know what you think will happen."

As if on cue, Sherlock's eyes snapped open. In a very unfocussed gaze. He turned his head and his grey green eyes latched onto Lestrade. The brunet smirked, a slurred "ooops" came out. He struggled to sit upright. "Uh oh." He looked at the DI with a sheepish grin. "I seem to be under the influence, and that's not…good, with you standing there." He pointed unsteadily at the DI, who tried to give him a reassuring look.

"Take it easy, Sherlock. Not your fault this time." Greg and John helped him sit up, because he seemed to be having difficulties coordinating those long legs and arms.

Sherlock looked around the room, as if seeing it for the first time. "Where am I? What happened?" He wasn't at all anxious; in fact, he looked like he was trying hard not to giggle.

John answered. "She drugged you."

"Who?" Both Sherlock and Lestrade asked the question at exactly the same time. That made Sherlock giggle. "Like an owl…whoo."

John sighed. "Never mind; this will have to wait until the drug has worn off." The doctor turned to the paramedic. "What's likely to happen next?"

The paramedic smirked. "Well, if he follows the norm, he's going to get rather affectionate- it loosens inhibitions, and it's been known to make people suggestible and…ah...randy."

As he struggled to get Sherlock to his feet, the tall brunet giggled and hung onto John for dear life, as if he'd just discovered a life sized teddy bear. Lestrade could hardly contain his smirk.

_Oh, joy._ John just closed his eyes. _Now people will REALLY talk._

oOo

John convinced Lestrade to come with him to Baker Street- first to provide a police car there, because a taxi driver would take one look at a man who couldn't stand up and assume he was drunk and likely to throw up in the back. No matter how much they charged for a clean-up, it was never enough to compensate for having to take the cab out of action for the rest of the day and night to get rid of the vomit smell- so nobody would agree to take them, and John knew it.

And Lestrade wasn't about to let this one go. "Mycroft may get to the Kensington boys to stifle this one, but…I want the truth, the whole truth. Nobody who drugs Sherlock is going to get away with it, if I have anything to say about it. So, I'll take a statement from you once we've got Mr Sunshine here safely home."

The man in question was now sitting quietly with a bemused grin on his face, in the back seat of the squad car. John wasn't convinced that Sherlock wouldn't throw up and suddenly react to the drug in an unpredictable way. This was the guy who could be given a shot of haloperidol by an A&E team at a hospital and become even _more_ agitated, on a dose that should have floored an elephant. So, he didn't trust a non-medical person in the back. That said, he also wanted to keep his distance, too, lest the rumour mill at the Yard get even more material.

When John got in on the other side of the back seat, he was greeted by a cheery "Hello, John. I was beginning to wonder if you'd forgotten me."

_As if I could._ John slid across the back seat toward his friend, put on his doctor face and looked at Sherlock's pupil dilation. Still constricted beyond belief; the man was high as a kite. The expression on Sherlock's face was just …open, relaxed, and somehow it made him look ten years younger and vulnerable, rather sweet. He was holding his seatbelt as if he'd never seen it before, and hadn't a clue what to do with it.

The DI got into the front passenger seat and the constable driving put the car into gear, moving off while John was still trying to get Sherlock's seatbelt latched- and took a sharp right turn onto Elizabeth Street, throwing John's balance completely off kilter. He ended up virtually sitting in his flatmate's lap. Usually, his flatmate avoided any physical contact, but this time Sherlock laughed out loud, and just hugged John to stop him from ending up on the floor. Greg sniggered, and he heard the ominous sound of a phone taking a picture behind him.

"Don't _you_ start!" John growled this. The sloppy grin on Sherlock's face vanished, and he looked like a ten year old kid who'd been caught doing something wrong.

"I'm …sorry, John." He let go of him and shrank back like he'd been slapped.

_Oh, Christ. Now I've upset him._ John put on a big smile, and said, "It's OK Sherlock; I'm not mad at you, just at Lestrade." He clambered back into his seat and clipped himself in. Sherlock was watching his every move, with the usual fascination reserved for murder victims or three week old cadavers. It made John uncomfortable.

Sherlock might be seriously drugged, but he was still able to deduce John's discomfort, and his expression crumpled. "You _are _mad at me. What have I done wrong this time?"

"No, I'm not. I'm worried about you. This is me being worried."

Now, the brunet wouldn't meet his eye at all. He tried to look out the window, but then scrunched his eyes shut as if the sight of moving traffic, pedestrians and all the buildings was too much to bear. He gasped and looked back into the taxi in a bit of a panic. He pulled absently on his seatbelt, as if fighting the restriction. Greg was watching, using the mirror on his sun visor.

_Uh oh. Sensory overload. He's going to get scared in a minute._

"Pull over for a minute, will you?," he asked the PC driving.

When the car stopped, he got out of the front seat and opened the passenger door on Sherlock's side. He unlatched the man's seatbelt and told Sherlock to slide over into the middle, which he did.

He put his right arm on the back of the seat behind Sherlock, who instinctively moved in to lean toward the older man. ""It's alright, Sherlock. I've got you. It's OK, just close your eyes."

John looked at Lestrade in surprise. He'd not seen this before from the man. And Sherlock's response was just more eye-opening. He knew that the DI had known Sherlock for years before he'd arrived on the scene, but most of his contact over the past two years had been at crime scenes, standing around a body or working at the Yard on investigations. The doctor knew that there was history between them, but he'd never really probed much. He didn't like talking about his own history- why bother, when Sherlock was able to deduce everything he wanted to about his flatmate? Sherlock never volunteered anything about his own past. _Boring, tedious_- the standard answers to any sort of half-hearted query by John.

When the police car went around Hyde Park Corner and turned onto Park Lane, Sherlock leaned even more onto Lestrade, tucking his head into the man's shoulder, his eyes squeezed shut. John looked at the DI, and made a silent gesture of "what's happening?"

Very quietly, Lestrade just said. "The drug is pushing him into sensory overload; not nice. He needs to get home fast, or he'll end up having a meltdown or panic attack."

Around Marble Arch, the car had to speed up and move across lanes of swirling traffic to get into the correct lane to get onto Baker Street. The lurches brought a low moan from Sherlock, who clung onto the DI as if to a lifeline. "Just hang in there, Sherlock. Not long now, and then the world will stop spinning out of control, I promise."


	44. Chapter 44

**Chapter 44: Calling the Police in Belgravia - Part Two**

* * *

By the time they drew up outside Baker Street, John was definitely worried. The doctor got out, as Lestrade tried to talk Sherlock into getting out on his side of the car. As soon as he managed to get to the edge of the seat with his feet out the door, Sherlock's head went down and he vomited. Greg just kept his hand on the brunet's back until he was done, and handed him a handkerchief to clean his mouth. John squatted down to take a good look at his friend's eyes- still constricted into tiny pinpricks. His question, "Can you manage to stand up, Sherlock?" was answered by a simple nod, then a mumbled "..try…"

Between the two of them, Greg and John managed to get him to the front door. Praying that Mrs Hudson was home, John hit the doorbell rather than risk fumbling for his keys.

The landlady was horrified at the sight. "Oh, Good Lord. What's happened? Is he alright?" The two men got him into the hall. John tried to reassure her. "He's been drugged by a suspect, Mrs Hudson. He should be OK once he's slept it off."

"What happened to his face?"

Without thinking, John answered. "Oh, I did that." Greg gave him a sharp look of disbelief. "Not that way, Lestrade- he _asked _me to do it- part of his disguise to get into the house."

John was looking up stairs and wondering how they were going to manhandle Sherlock up the seventeen steps. Greg just pushed Sherlock up against the wall, leaned up against him and then bent at the waist and knees, allowing Sherlock to drop over his shoulder as if he'd done it many times before. With a grunt, he stood up, holding Sherlock's legs against his chest, and letting the lanky man's head drop across his back. He staggered over to the first step.

"Are you sure about this? Shouldn't we do this together?" John worried about the pair of them collapsing half way up.

"Don't worry," the DI panted. Slowly, step by step, he went up. The doctor slipped past them to get the door to the flat open. Lestrade was puffing heavily by the time he reached the top, but kept going into the bedroom. John helped him unload the now comatose brunet onto the bed, and started on removing his shoes while Greg recovered his breath. "Jeez," he wheezed, "he's put on weight. You must be getting him to eat more these days."

Sherlock was pretty much out of it, but allowed John to move him into the recovery position on his side and pull the duvet up around his shoulders. The doctor found the bin in the corner of the room and placed it close to the side of the bed, just in case Sherlock felt the need to throw up again. Lestrade was standing in the doorway, watching Sherlock with a concerned look on his face. John checked Sherlock's pulse, and counted his respirations. Slow, but acceptable. He was going to need to sleep it off. Lestrade shut the curtains and turned off the overhead light to ease the sensory stimulation.

John left the door open a bit as the two men went back into the living room. "I need a cup of tea. Want one?" When the DI nodded, John went into the kitchen, as the silver haired man went into the living room and sat down rather heavily in Sherlock's chair. John was reminded of the first time he'd seen Lestrade sitting there, on the night he moved into Baker Street, when the DI had staged his pretend drugs bust. A lot had happened since then.

When John delivered a steaming cup to Greg, he sat down in his chair and just looked at the DI, as if seeing him for the first time. "You…hoisted him up over your shoulder like you've done it before. In fact, lots of times before. Want to tell me the whys and wherefores?"

Greg looked up from his tea. Brown eyes met blue, and John could see there was indecision in them. He needed to address that. "You're wondering what right I have to know. If it's any of my business. Yeah, I can understand that."

The older man shook his head. "No, that's not what I'm thinking. Really, John, I'm really wondering why we haven't had this conversation before." Then he looked bemused. "I suppose it's because we only really cross paths when we are standing over a dead body watching him dance about, solving things that no one else in their right mind could even imagine, let alone deduce."

John slowly nodded. "I know I've had the occasional pint with you and the Yarders, but that's not private enough for this sort of conversation. And I've not asked, either; in part, because our mutual friend refuses to talk to me about his past- 'boring, tedious, John; what matters is the present.' It's his motto. But, I remember the first night I met you, I asked why you worked with him. You really surprised mewhen you said Sherlock is a great man, and that you thought one day, if we're very, very lucky, he might even be a good one. I hadn't a clue what you meant then. I do now. So, tell me more. All of it- or, at least, as much as you think I should know."

So, Greg told him about the night he first met a skinny sixteen year old, who was a possible accessory to a murder. Then he told him the tale of the Pountney Club and then the time Sherlock solved Greg's investigation into the death of a trafficker in drugs and illegal immigrants.

"Mycroft wasn't much impressed by Sherlock's interest in police work. Did his damnedest to keep him away from me and the Yard. Tried to scare me witless a few times; almost succeeded, too. But like a bad penny, Sherlock kept turning up. The cocaine thing; yeah, that was worrying- especially when I found him on a rooftop in the middle of a lethal overdose. The drugs are the reason I learned how to pick him up and get him squared away before he hurt himself."

"As a result, Sherlock trusted me. He told me the reason for the drugs, and I've watched over him during detox. I told him that the only way he could ever work with me or the Yard was if he is clean. He's fallen off the wagon a few times, and I force him into a time-out until he can prove he's ready. Over the years, Mycroft and I made our peace, mostly because Sherlock didn't give him a choice.

"He told me about the SPD and being on the Spectrum. It wasn't news, helps that my nephew Sam is autistic; I can recognise the signs. I've watched him over the years deal with death, blood and gore that would make a retiring DI puke- all without batting an eye. Take him to an amusement park, the Underground at rush hour or a New Year's Eve celebration in Trafalgar Square, and he'll melt down every time, and turn into a quivering mass. After today, I'll add date rape drugs to that list. I've learned where he can be pushed, and the no-go areas. He is, without a doubt, the most stubborn man I have ever known. And rude. I'm now so used to his calling me an idiot that if he doesn't, my first instinct is that he is ill." This thought gave rise to a wry smile.

"Until you came along, I wondered if anyone was ever going to see the positive things I see, along with the certifiably difficult problems."

That raised an echoing wry smile from the ex-Army doctor.

"And, heavens above, you're a doctor. You have no idea how relieved that makes me." Lestrade rubbed his hands thoughtfully. "You know how he hates hospitals; nearly driven me mad how he would walk away from a crime scene with an injury that I knew had to be looked at, but would he ever take my advice? Not on your life."

John smirked. "Don't overestimate my influence, Greg; it's a battle I lose more often than not."

"Maybe- but I meant what I said last week. He's better coming back from the past month in that clinic with you than I have ever seen him. I don't know what miracles occurred. Don't want to know, actually. Just for God's sake, keep it up whatever it is you're doing. Because this Moriarty thing has got me well and truly scared. Was this morning's episode anything to do with that?"

John wasn't sure what he should say. Moriarty was Mycroft territory, and he didn't want to give too much away. If he did, given the fact that the man was probably listening in right now, he could expect another rendezvous with a black car and that attractive PA.

The DI sensed his hesitation. "Look, I know I'm not to get involved. Mycroft has made that clear to me. He's insisting on vetting every Yard case that I might want to get Sherlock in on, just in case that mad bomber is involved. I know he's doing the same to your blog. You know what I thought about Sherlock's behaviour during that little pips campaign of his. So, I'm just telling you- it scares me. The games he plays with Sherlock's mind – and yours- really, really worry me."

"You and me both, Greg." John finished his tea, and sat his RAMC mug down on the mantel piece. "What I can do is tell you what happened in Belgravia today, and leave you to draw any conclusions you want to make."

So, he did. Lestrade took out a notebook from his jacket pocket and started to make notes.

oOo

"A dominatrix? _Shit_."

"When I walked into the drawing room, she was sitting on his lap on the sofa, stark naked, apart from stiletto heels and a pair of earrings. "

Greg's eyes grew big. "That must have gone down like a bucket of cold sick."

John thought about it. "Actually, you might be surprised. Oh, he didn't…ah…you know, _respond_ to her in the way that most guys I know would, but he was sort of, I don't know, _fascinated_."

Lestrade probed. "Do you mean fascinated in the way he gets when a particularly gruesome cadaver shows up at the morgue? Or are we talking sex here?" The DI's incredulity was clear. John stored that little fact away, to think about later. Not now. Now he had to keep up the story.

"More like the cadaver. But what happened next only complicates the fascination." He described the scam that they used to get Irene to identify where the phone was, but then the arrival of the Americans threw their plans into disarray. He explained when the agent held a gun to his head and threatened to shoot him if Sherlock didn't get the safe open. "He kept saying he didn't know the code, and the woman backed him up, but the American couldn't care less. Just said if he was any good, he'd be able to figure it out."

Lestrade eyed the doctor, as if looking to see signs of shock or trauma. "He must have done so, because you're still in one piece."

John smiled. "Yeah, not only that, he deduced that the safe was protected by a gun rigged up to go off if anyone tried to open it unawares. He ducked as he opened it, and it caught point blank that guy who'd had his gun to my head. That's what I meant when I said nobody had fired the shot that killed him." He looked down into his tea cup, wondering whether it was time to offer Lestrade something stronger. "It's not the first time I 've been grateful for his ability to think while under pressure."

"After that, he fired the gun in the street to wake up the police. We thought it was pretty much a done deal. He had the phone in his hands. If I hadn't left him alone with her in the bedroom, we wouldn't be sitting here now, worrying about him. It was my fault- I was an idiot. I went downstairs to check that there were no other Americans lurking around. When I got back up there, he was on the floor and the woman was gone before the first copper got in the door."

Lestrade looked up from his notebook, sensing that John's narrative had come to a halt. "I suppose she will go to ground now. I'll check to see how the Kensington team got on in the house; but she sounds rather too professional to have slipped up and left anything incriminating. By the sounds of it- not to mention the presence of dead Americans, SO6 and Mycroft's own people on site- this story isn't going to hit a police blotter anytime soon." Greg sighed. "You're sure he'll be alright?"

John gave a half shrug. "Medically, yeah- if Mycroft's crew haven't come back to tell me it's something other than GHB, then my guess he will just sleep it off. Psychologically, I think he's going to be pissed off, madder than hell and really, really annoyed to have been bested by that woman. You _know_ he doesn't like losing."

"Tell me about it. He won't give up, John, not the remotest chance. She's hit the one button of his guaranteed to result in a replay."

As the two men exchanged worried glances, John heard a muffled noise from the hall to Sherlock's room. "John?" Then the sound of a body hitting the floor and a louder, "JOHN!"

Greg smiled. "Go on, I'll leave him in your good hands. Just keep an eye on him for me, will you?"


	45. Chapter 45

**Got My Eye on You Chapter Forty Five- Telling Time**

* * *

Lestrade was a punctual man. Proud of it, too. He had been raised by two parents who parcelled their day out in half hours, each allocated to a particular duty. His father woke early at the mercy of an alarm clock, ate the breakfast that his wife made for him, and then went to work; he was a train-yard signalman. Punctuality _mattered_ in his business. When drivers brought their trains in late, there were consequences: frustrated passengers, annoyed commuters, and the inevitable knock-on consequences of one late train messing up a lot of other trains which, through no fault of their own, were then going to be late. It was inconsiderate. When signalling problems added to those delays, he'd come home distressed at the number of people he'd let down, through no fault of his own. His dad didn't repair the ancient signals; he just had to make do with what the British Rail system gave him.

His mum was equally committed to clockwork. She had to be- juggling the demands of her husband, getting her kids off to school on time, managing the household and still finding time to be a teacher's aide at the local primary school every day from 10am to 2. She helped with the special needs children; it took a one-to-one focus for many of them to get the best out of school. There, she had to be patient, and use the time she was given to get the best for each of her special pupils.

So, Greg and his sister Carol grew up with parents knowing the value of good timekeeping. Not being punctual was being selfish in their book, and it became Greg's view, too. Of course, no one could manage a nine-to-five approach to a murder enquiry team at the Met. Murderers just didn't respect the rules, and were selfish by nature. So, he got used to being called out at all hours, night and day, on weekends and even recalled from his holidays, if the Yard was really desperate. It drove his wife Louise round the bend. "I can never plan anything around you, Greg. Your career is just…so inconvenient." He had some sympathy with her complaints.

But, timekeeping was important in his business. A time of death ruled some suspects in, gave alibis to others. The amount of time it took to die- to bleed to death, to suffocate, to succumb to poison – influenced decisions about intent and motive, whether something was premeditated or accidental. In his business, every minute counted, and he counted every minute. It mattered.

Over the years of working with Sherlock Holmes, however, he'd learned that time was relative. Certainly, it was when it came to the way the man himself worked. On the one hand, Sherlock could arrive within minutes of a summons to a crime scene, and his grasp of London's geography and road system meant he could predict to within a minute or two just how long it would take for him to get there by taxi. The cab drivers were in awe of the man's ability to tell them what route to take to avoid snarl-ups, road works and accidents. So, as long as he said he would come, then Lestrade could count on him turning up, like clockwork.

On a crime scene, Sherlock was all whirling motion, assessing the case within minutes and putting things together that would have taken his officers hours of dogged plodding work, if they could manage to think of the possible connections between the data in the first place. On a crime scene, Sherlock compressed time to the shortest possible distance between two deductive points. That's why Lestrade was desperate to have him on board- especially on those cases where a delay could lead to another death. To know that a short cut like Sherlock could save a life made it nothing short of criminally negligent not to get him involved. That's why the DI always felt pained when his description of a case raised a "Boring" response. Not only would their chances of clearing up a case fall without Sherlock, it also meant that it would take much longer to reach that failure, eating up scarce police resource. There was simply too much crime and not enough of one Sherlock to go around.

But, Greg also knew that Sherlock's sense of time was a little elastic. His nephew Sam experienced the problem, too. People on the Autistic Spectrum often had problems judging the passage of time. He'd once watched Sherlock spend four hours experimenting on the same slide, without any idea that time was passing- totally absorbed meant no sense of time passing at all. For Sherlock, time was relative- it all depended on what he was being expected to do. And that was the problem right now.

The object of his concern was currently stretched out on the sofa in Baker Street, totally immobilised. Eyes closed, hands steepled on his chest as if in prayer, the brunet looked like one of those medieval stone effigies on a tomb- inert, unresponsive.

Lestrade had seen Sherlock in a pose like this on many occasions, pre-John. He'd felt relieved when John moved into the flat, because he appreciated having someone else to watch over Sherlock when he got like this, when time stood still.

Unfortunately for the DI, John was away. A family issue, up in the Midlands, a dying aunt with no children needed someone to help her put her affairs in order before she lost her battle with congestive heart failure. So, John had left Greg "in charge" of Sherlock.

"Just look in occasionally, will you? Find a case that will keep him on a crime scene or at the morgue where you and Molly can split the difference of making sure he doesn't do anything daft. Ideally, you'll have a nice juicy triple murder in a locked room, involving no obvious weapons or cause of death."

Greg had laughed at the description. "For Sherlock, that's better than Christmas, Birthday and New Year all rolled into one- and the chances of it happening are pretty slim, too."

John laughed, "I know, but I can always hope, can't I? I expect to be gone a week or so. I've asked Mrs Hudson to try to keep the fridge stocked, but she is not our housekeeper, and she's certainly not Sherlock's nanny, she died years ago, probably of despair, so there are limits to what I can expect of our landlady."

Greg tried, he really tried to find a case worthy of the man's attention. After the first day, he started harassing his colleagues- other DIs on the other Murder Investigation Teams- to see if he could 'loan' them Sherlock, if it was juicy enough. He'd even started scouring the police forces outside of the Met's jurisdiction. Alas, the criminal fraternity was not obliging. Every possible suggestion had met with a one word text reply: BORING. Sherlock didn't even bother to put his initials at the end.

On the second day, Lestrade cleaned out the last of the cold case files and sent them by messenger to Baker Street. They came back annotated a day later. His people and three other teams as well were now hard at work chasing down new lines of enquiry, none of which attracted Sherlock's interest enough to actually leave the flat, or to even answer his phone. Every text he sent got the same instant reply, "boring". A phone call went straight to the voicemail message: a baritone monotone, "You know who this is and you know what to do, just don't be boring" and then the beep.

In the evening of the third day, Greg decided to cross the threshold of Baker Street and see how the brunet was dealing with the inactivity.

"Oh, Detective Inspector, I am _so_ pleased to see you!" Mrs Hudson heard him use his key to let himself into the ground floor of 221 Baker Street. She gave a worried glance upstairs. "It's been awfully quiet up there last night and today. No violin playing, no charging up and down the stairs. I haven't even heard the floorboards creak when he starts pacing. If I didn't have the evidence of my own eyes, I'd say the flat was unoccupied. I swear he hasn't moved from the settee. All that lovely food in the fridge- he hasn't touched it. I went up yesterday to make him a cup of tea, tried to cook him something- well, he just told me to leave him alone. The kitchen table was actually bare- none of those tubes and flasks and things he use on those experiments of his. Today, he didn't even reply to me. I'm use to him being rude or in a strop, but this….silence… is worrying."

He climbed the seventeen steps and unlocked the flat door. The flat was quiet, so his footsteps on the hall floor were certain to carry far enough to be heard by the man lying on the sofa, but there was no acknowledgement when he entered the room.

"Sherlock."

No reply. He was there in his pyjamas and dressing gown, a day or more's stubble evident. There was a cold mug of tea on the coffee table; from the skin of milk that had formed, probably there since yesterday.

Greg picked up the mug and took it into the kitchen, and poured it down the sink. While he was there he made himself a cup of coffee and poured Sherlock a large glass of water. He then took the drinks back into the living room and sat on the coffee table so he was close enough to Sherlock that the younger man would be able to smell him. By experience, Greg knew that Sherlock's sense of his personal space was influenced by his sense of smell, and Greg was now in his nose the way others might get in someone's face- up close and personal.

"I'm going to get increasingly hard to ignore, Sherlock, if you don't acknowledge that I'm here. It's up to you. Push me to the limit and I might even be forced to put a hand on you."

That threat made one grey green eye snap open. "You wouldn't dare."

"Don't push your luck, sunshine." He smiled.

The eye shut.

"Do you have any idea what time it is?"

"Irrelevant."

"How long has it been since you ate something?"

"Don't know; don't care."

"Well, I do. Because if you're there lying in a state of decomposition when John comes home, he will confront me with your dead body and accuse me of manslaughter."

"I'm not going to starve to death, Lestrade. Go away, your conscience is clear."

"But you could die of dehydration. I'm not joking, Sherlock. Somewhere in that Mind Palace of yours is the fact that unless you consume 3 litres a day of fluids, you won't make it until John gets back."

"What day is it?"

This question surprised Greg. "What day do you think it is?"

"Don't know." He still hadn't opened his eyes again.

Greg pondered this. "Why not? You know everything… What's so difficult about keeping track of time? It's important Sherlock."

"No, it isn't."

"Explain it to me; I'm an idiot and I don't understand how it is possible to NOT notice the fact that the sun has come up and gone down three times since John left, and that you should have had nine meals and numerous cups of tea, coffee or, even better, water, between now and then."

Sherlock sighed. "You wouldn't understand."

"Try to explain it to me."

"You waste so much time thinking about time. It obsesses you- oh, not just you, everybody's the same. I can't be bothered. I don't get hungry or thirsty the way you do. Sometimes I think I might be feeling something, but I can't be bothered to recognise it as what you call hunger or thirst. There's no compulsion to do anything about it. Sometimes my stomach hurts and occasionally I get dizzy. But that happens irrespective of whether I eat or drink- it's just the way I often feel. Time becomes irrelevant when I don't need it for the purposes of The Work, or an experiment. So, I stop caring about it. Why waste the energy? Who came up with the idea of 'time' in the first place? It's just a way of describing something. I could call it a widget and say that there are 240 widgets in a gizmo, and that gizmos are useful to organise your day- but not mine."

His eyes opened, and he looked cross. "For that matter- why does a night matter? What difference does it make that the sun is up or down? I don't sleep for more than 90 minutes at a time no matter when I do it, so the idea that night is somehow different than day is…irrelevant."

Greg thought about it. If one lived entirely on one's own, he supposed that time would be irrelevant. "But, Sherlock, you live in a world of people who live according to time."

"Do I? Only when I'm working. If I'm not working, then time stands still. Someday it will just…stop. I don't mind. If there's no work, then there's no point."

That made the DI wince. It made him remember a rooftop in London and an intentional overdose. "Sherlock, don't… please, don't say things like that, don't think it. You are more than the work. You can't be that selfish."

A cloud seemed to pass over Sherlock's face, a not-quite-there expression. Then his eyes opened and he looked at Lestrade as if seeing him for the first time. "I don't understand."

Greg drew in a deep breath. "No, I don't suppose you do. You see the world from your point of view; I get it. I'm not judging you for that. But, you need to understand that not everyone is like you. So let me tell you what it's like out here, looking in. Every time you do this, it doesn't hurt you, but it does hurt the people out here who care about you."

The brunet started to open his mouth, but Greg got there first. "I know…don't bother saying it; you've told me often enough. You don't care what other people think."

He was finding this painful to say. He'd seen the younger man lying on the sofa grow up from a cocky sixteen year old with an attitude problem almost as big as his unique talent for seeing things and making sense of them. Over the years, Sherlock had been through a lot of pain, some of it inflicted by others, some by his own actions. Greg always tried hard to do the best for Sherlock, even though at times that brought him into conflict with what the headstrong young man thought.

He tried to summon a way to say it that would reach Sherlock. "There are some of us out here, Sherlock, who aren't just 'people'. We matter more because we are actually part of you. You can't ignore us, because that's like ignoring one of your arms or legs- or, even better, a room in that bloody Mind Palace of yours. You can't pretend that we aren't in there with you. You can't delete us."

He sighed and stood up. "I'm taking the time to tell you this, to come over here, to cook us both a meal, because unlike you, I will fall over if I don't eat something tonight. I told John I would keep an eye on you, and I keep my promises. And you will take the time to eat it with me."

"Why?"

"Why, what? Why will I fall over if I don't eat? Why will I cook a meal to share with you? Why do I keep my promises to your flatmate? Or why am I a part of your Mind Palace? The last one you have to answer for yourself. The others you already know the answer to, you're just being stubborn."

There was no reply.

He went into the kitchen and rummaged in the fridge, deciding on an omelette, with cheese -simple and quick, but nutritious. He spotted the odd little bottles at the back and pulled one out. The label said, "One nasal spray dose, twice daily: morning and just before bed."

He went back into the living room. "What's this?"

Sherlock opened his eyes just long enough to spot the nasal spray bottle.

"Oxytocin."

Greg was none the wiser. "Are you the intended recipient?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Then by my calculation, you've missed six doses since John left."

"Probably."

"Sherlock, what kind of answer is that? You either took it as required, or you didn't."

"Then my best guess is that I haven't."

"Why not?"

"Didn't seem important. Lost track of time. Take your pick."

"Do what you have to do with it right now. If you don't, I swear I will sit on your chest and stuff the damn thing up your nose myself."

That provoked a furrowed brow. Then Sherlock sat up and reached for the bottle.

Greg gave it to him and watched him complete the procedure. "Right, now drink that glass of water." He picked up Sherlock's phone from the coffee table, and disappeared into the kitchen.

When he returned twenty minutes later, Sherlock was sitting up. He handed him a plate of eggs and sat himself down at the table between the windows. He didn't watch Sherlock; he knew that his nephew Sam hated being watched when he was eating, so he assumed it probably annoyed him as much. When he wasn't eating his own omelette, he was poking the keys of Sherlock's phone.

When he finished, he collected a now empty plate and glass from Sherlock and went into the kitchen.

The sound of running water and the scent of dishwashing liquid reached Sherlock. Time passed, he didn't bother to keep count. Lestrade would be done when he was done. Didn't need to know how long it took. Sherlock was slowly sinking back into that half-hibernation stage on the sofa, listening to his stomach and gut deal with the solids that had just arrived. That distraction from the brainwork annoyed him, briefly.

"Sherlock, pay attention."

He sighed, but opened his eyes to look at the expression on the face of the silver-haired man. He looked tired, and a little fed up, but very determined. "I'm listening."

"Good, because I will say this once. I'm not your keeper, I'm not your flatmate. What you do in your own home is your own business. But, I've got too much invested in you to watch you wreck that brain of yours because you can't be bothered to keep track of time. So, your phone is going to annoy you over the next four days. I've programmed three different alarm ring tones." He pressed a button, and the sounds of a chorus of boys filled the flat: "Food, Glorious Food/We're anxious to try it/Three banquets a day/Our favourite Diet/Food, Glorious Food."

Sherlock grimaced. Greg laughed. "Yeah, I know… irritating, isn't it? I hope so; It's on a continuous loop and it goes off three times a day to remind you to get off that sofa and eat something." He stopped the offending song from the musical Oliver, and then pressed another button. The thumping bass line of Bon Jovi's Bad Medicine boomed out. "And this one will go off at nine am and again at 9pm."

He stopped the music and pressed another button. This time the guitar chords and drum beat of The Who filled the flat. Roger Daltrey's gravelly voice belted out "The policemen they're acting so tough/they need water/Good water/They need Water."

Sherlock glowered.

"Yeah, I know- not to your taste. Tough. Get over it. You won't be able to ignore these. Just eat, drink and take the bloody medicine. Let the phone tell the time for you. Before you know it, you'll have your speaking clock back in the flat when John returns."

Greg plugged the phone into its recharge cable, and switched it on. "If I find you've let the battery run down, I'll return and plug it in again, Sherlock."

With that, Greg smirked, and left.

* * *

**Author's Note: **If you want to know why Sherlock is on this medicine, read my story **Crossfire_. _**


	46. Chapter 46

**Chapter Forty Six- Responsible Adult**

* * *

"Look, I'm sorry. If I had another choice, don't you think I'd make it?"

"So, what does that say about your trust in me, Lestrade?"

The DI sighed, "Oh, don't take that the wrong way. You know that I trust you and Sam together. It's not like this is the first time you've spent time alone with him."

"What's so important that you want to park him with me?"

"A crime scene."

"Oh, I see; you'd rather I did babysitting duty than do what I really want to do, which is solve a case."

"Sherlock, this is definitely a _boring_ crime scene. Well below your standards. It will be tedious, long winded and take more than half the night, not to mention the paperwork." The homicide in question was what might have been an open-and-shut domestic dispute gone horribly wrong. The first police on the scene told him that the couple had been visited on numerous occasions before when their arguments had become too noisy for the neighbours to tolerate any longer. This time, however, there was a body.

"I'm bored. My standards change when I'm bored."

"This is not only a boring case, but it also has Anderson on Forensics." _Now, don't tell me that you still want to come._ The DI knew that Sherlock's relationship with the Crime Scene Examiner had taken a turn for the even worse lately. He hoped it would be enough to deter the consulting detective. "I'm just asking you to keep an eye on him for an evening."

On the other end of the phone call, Greg could hear the sniff. "This isn't about Sam; you know I like him. It's about me missing a crime scene. Why not take him with you? We could all meet up there."

"Sherlock…what part of a messy crime scene with a murder victim's head bashed in with a cricket bat makes you think it is appropriate for a fourteen year old?"

"At that age, I would have given my right arm to see it."

The DI cast a glance at his nephew, who was playing a Grand Prix racing game on Greg's laptop. "Yeah, well, thank God, Sam is better adjusted than you were at his age. And besides, you remember the last time Sam met Anderson, it didn't go well. "

"Where's his mother? Isn't that what mothers do? Protect their offspring from the bullies and the sight of blood? Mine tried to, before Mycroft took over that role, and failed miserably at it."

"Carole's gone up to see her mother, who's just got home after a replacement knee operation. She's taken Sam's baby sister Angie, and his dad is overseas at some IT exhibition in Singapore. So, I agreed to take Sam for the week. Please, Sherlock. I'm really pressed for time here, and would appreciate you helping out."

When there was no snappy retort, Greg just crossed his fingers and hoped for the best. "I'll be over in about twenty minutes to drop him off- on my way to the scene."

oOo

John was tired and a bit bleary-eyed when he unlocked the front door of 221b. It had been a long shift at the hospital, but worth it for racking up some more points on his A&E re-qualification. He might not be able to be a surgeon any more, thanks to that Taliban bullet, but he was so bored with GP locum work that he had decided to try to get back into Emergency medicine. His shift ran from 4pm to 3am, and he was now ready to put his head down and get some serious sleep. The run of illnesses and injuries, many of which were alcohol-fuelled, had kept him constantly on the move for eleven hours. His feet hurt, his back was stiff, and his shoulder ached.

When he reached the top of the stairs, he saw that there was a light on the living room, but it was empty. He switched the desk lamp off. _Sherlock must have forgotten to turn it off._ He wondered briefly whether he could be bothered to fix himself a cup of tea, but then realised he was really, really too tired to bother. He was heading for the stairs up to his bedroom when he heard the sound of someone retching.

He stopped in his tracks. Unmistakable- he'd been hearing it for most of the night as London's youth overindulged and ended up hurting themselves and others. There- it happened again. He sighed and returned to the hall. _What's he got up to this time?_

He knocked on the bathroom door. "Sherlock, what's happening? Are you alright?"

A softly spoken reply: "John, please, just go away."

He sighed. In a firm doctor's voice, he replied "No, I'm coming in. You can't expect me to ignore this." He reached for the door handle.

As he pushed open the door, he was startled to see Sherlock right on the other side, blocking his way in. The bathroom light wasn't on, but there was a dim light from behind him. John looked at the tall brunet, who showed no signs of being ill. Sherlock just whispered, "Please, just go away. You can't help." Behind him, John heard the sound of someone vomiting again.

His eyes widened. "Who's in there with you, Sherlock?" He did whisper this, unconsciously mirroring his flatmate's volume.

"It's Sam, Lestrade's nephew. He just needs to do this alone."

John didn't bother to hide his incredulous surprise. "What on earth is a relative of Lestrade's doing here in our flat?" He was still speaking in a stage whisper.

"I'm looking after him, while Lestrade is investigating a crime scene. Sam is staying with him this week, while his parents are away."

"YOU have a _sick_ _child_ in there? How old is he? Let me see him." This was delivered in a full-volume no-nonsense medical professional's tone.

Sherlock put an arm up that blocked John's entry at throat level. He spoke in an equally firm, but very quiet voice, "No, John. You coming in here is only going to make matters worse." He stepped out of the room and pushed John back into the hall, taking advantage of his height and John's amazement at being man-handled by a flatmate he knew loathed physical contact.

"Back up- into the living room, and I'll explain."

John was so stunned by the whole situation that he allowed himself to be pushed backwards. "Sherlock, what the hell ? If he has the flu or something, I can help. Did he eat something that disagreed with him? Has he been here all evening? How old is he? What did you feed him for supper? Maybe he's allergic?"

That brought a ghost of a smile from his flatmate. "Calm down, _Doctor_ Watson. There is no need for any diagnostics. I know exactly what he is suffering and he doesn't need any medical intervention."

John looked suspiciously at the brunet and crossed his arms across his chest. "Start explaining, and do it fast, or I'm going in there, Sherlock. Lestrade should know better than to leave a child under your care."

That angered Sherlock. "For once, John, you are very wrong. Now just _shut up_ and sit down. Or better still, fix yourself a cup of tea. And turn the microwave on; there's a heating pack in there- 2 minutes on high power. When the kettle's boiled, put some hot water in a mug with some honey and I will take them into him."

The two men stared at each other, for a moment of stalemate. Then the sound of retching interrupted their showdown, and John was in motion. He ducked under the arm that Sherlock threw out to restrain him, and bolted down the hall. He had the advantage of being smaller, and was halfway to the bathroom by the time Sherlock had managed to get his taller frame turned around.

As John pushed upon the door, be saw that the dim light was cast by a candle on the bathtub. The door banged back against the tiled wall with a clatter, and a howl of dismay came from a brown haired boy on his knees in front of the toilet. He vomited violently, his body wracked with spasms. John crossed to him just as Sherlock got to the door, and started to put his arm around the young lad's shoulders.

"_No! Don't touch him."_ Sherlock warned John, but it was too late. As soon as his arm made contact, the boy screamed out and tried to get away, throwing himself violently to the left, knocking John against the bath. The boy lunged towards the door that went into Sherlock's bedroom, scrabbling on his hands and knees to get away into the darkness of the room beyond.

Sherlock snarled at John. "Now you've done it. Just go _AWAY_, John. Please." They could both hear the sound of sobbing going on, muffled by bedclothes.

"Sherlock, what is going on!? He's clearly in trouble."

"Yes, John, and that's because of you. He's autistic and suffering his first major bout of IBS, and you crashing around like some wounded elephant means you might just have pushed him into a meltdown. Now, for God's sake, get out of here and leave him to me, will you?!" This was delivered in a whisper with all the venom that Sherlock could muster.

John looked at his flatmate's angry scowl and then into the darkness of the bedroom. _Autistic. OH, I am a prat._

He got up from the floor of the bathroom and without a word went into the kitchen and turned the kettle on.

oOo

It was just past 4.30am. Sherlock had stayed with Sam in the dark bedroom for almost an hour, calming the boy down. When John had done what he had been told to do, he delivered the hot water and the heating pad to Sherlock, who tucked the wheat-filled soft bag into the curled up ball that was Sam. He held the cup against his own wrist until it had cooled down enough. John watched him from the hall. The brunet was sitting cross-legged on the floor about three feet from the bed, just talking to Sam in a very calm, quiet voice. John couldn't see Sam, but he heard him sit up suddenly. Sherlock pushed the kitchen's plastic rubbish bin close to the edge of the bed, when he threw up again. He handed him the box of tissues and then the warm honeyed water. "Drink it slowly. Tiny sips. Count to twenty between each sip. Keep going until it's empty."

Eventually, the boy's breathing steadied and became deeper. Sherlock stood up and grimaced. His left leg had gone to sleep, but he crept out, leaving the door ajar so he could still hear.

Now, sitting across from John sipping his own cup of tea, the brunet looked tired. John was tired too, but so wired from the events that he knew he wouldn't sleep. He'd already apologised to Sherlock.

"It's not me you need to apologise to, John. It's Sam. Doctors who try to treat teenagers on the Spectrum just don't understand how stressful it all is. Hormones muck everything up. Sam's fourteen. He's just starting puberty. The gut troubles that have plagued him on and off all his life are going to get worse. Whatever coping strategies figured out during childhood just don't work anymore. I remember lying in bed thinking that I could actually feel my bones growing. Everything...just _hurts._"

"Irritable Bowel Syndrome- is it common then?"

"If only 'irritable' was an adequate description. Most people who get the condition do so in their twenties, but for us it can happen earlier. It manifests in unbelievable pain. At least it did with me, and by tonight's episode, it has with Sam, too. You have no idea how frightening it is the first time it happens. I was convinced I was dying, when every movement, noise, sensation just seems to be like a knife twisting in my gut."

"If the carers don't know about it, it can be terrifying for them, too. They panic and do just about everything wrong. I remember screaming my head off, being literally dragged down the hall by paramedics who thought I had a ruptured appendix. I'm just glad it happened for Sam when he was here, rather than staying with Lestrade. He would have been freaked by it all, and been sure that Sam was dying of something horrible. Probably call an ambulance and subject him to the terrors of a hospital visit like I was."

John gestured with a tip of his head to the table between the two windows. Six pill bottles were lined up. "Is one of those a treatment?"

"No. This is the first time he's had it. I expect his GP will want to prescribe mebeverine hydrochloride or TCAs; he's already on SSRIs. That's the classic approach. But, it assumes you can take a pill and keep it down. Strangely, vomiting actually helps. It relieves some of the abdominal muscle tension that comes when the bowel itself is cramping."

"So, what are all those for?"

"Lestrade left them when he dropped Sam off. We had a perfectly acceptable evening, by the way. I fixed him some soup and a salad, which he ate in front of the sports coverage of the Grand Prix in Dubai. Turns out his current fascination is with Formula One racing cars. His phone alarm was set to tell him when to take his medicine, and he made no fuss about it. Actually, what surprised me is how little has changed over the past twenty years." He waved dismissively at the line-up. "Melatonin to help him sleep; clomipramine for anxiety, methylphenidate hydrochloride for ADHD- I can't take that one. In fact, that's the interesting point about this stuff. Each and every patient has their own reaction to the meds. Some of it can help moderate the symptoms, in some people, some of the time. For others, it just makes things worse. I can't abide SSRIs, for example- had a severe serotonin reaction once – ended up scaring the School Nurse half to death. There are just too many ifs…"

"Will he be better in the morning?"

"The worst of it should have passed. I'll talk to Lestrade when he comes to pick him up in the morning, and explain things. I hope that will help Sam get through the next one better."

John yawned.

"Go to bed. There is no need for you to stay up. I can handle this."

John stood up and stretched. "Shouldn't you try to get some sleep?"

"No, I'm going to write his mother a note. She might appreciate some advice from someone who has been through it all before."

"Surely there are…I don't know, support groups? You know, parents who can help each other?"

Sherlock gave a little wry smile. "Most parents are learning as they go along. And no one ever thinks to ask the person who is actually going through it, although it has to be said we aren't always the best at explaining what is going on." He looked sad. "When I was his age, my father just hired in a series of carers who were paid not to listen to me. Everything was done the hard way. If I can help her in any way learn to listen to what Sam has to say, and to understand what it means, then I will do so." He opened his laptop.

John watched him. "I hope I'm awake when Lestrade comes to collect him. I'd like to apologise to Sam in person."

"It's not your fault, John, any more than it is the fault of the whole medical profession. And, if you'd like, I can arrange for you to meet Sam in better circumstances. You might find it…educational."

_In more ways than one, Sherlock_, thought John as he dragged his weary bones up to bed.


	47. Chapter 47

**Chapter Forty Seven- Defenestration **

* * *

"We've had a break-in at Baker Street. Send your least irritating officers and an ambulance."

_Oh, God. _DI Lestrade's imagination played a scene of death and destruction. Sherlock hadn't called for an ambulance when the flat across the street was blown up at the beginning of Moriarty's "game", despite the flying glass and being completely blown off his feet by the blast wave. So, if he is asking for an ambulance this time…. "Who's been hurt? You, John, or both?"

"Oh, no-no-no-no-no, we're fine. No, it's the, uh, burglar. He's got himself rather badly injured."

The movie in Greg's head changed mid-scene. Now he was worried about a dead burglar; _Please don't make it over some minor theft._ Lestrade knew that Sherlock sometimes found it hard to understand the dividing line between a proper response and one that was "over-the-top" when meting out justice to some criminal who had dared to presume that he could use physical violence against the detective. In those cases, at least he had an excuse of self-defence against a violent criminal. The DI had no idea what would happen if something like his precious skull had been nicked by some crazy kid for a dare. The tight clipped tones of that baritone voice betrayed just how wound up Sherlock was- and that scared Greg.

"How bad are his injuries?"

"Oh, a few broken ribs, fractured skull ... suspected punctured lung."

Greg's heart sank. _Please don't let the burglar press charges._ "You know that defending your property only allows you to use reasonable force, Sherlock. I hope you haven't done something that you will regret if he accuses you of assault."

Sherlock's reply was reassuring: "He fell out of a window," and then he hung up.

DI Lestrade was not one to encroach on other officers' territory. Protocol inside the Met was pretty tight. The Homicide and Serious Crimes Division in which he worked was keen to avoid wasting resources on more mundane everyday crime. So, Lestrade's first instinct was to say, "Not my division."

Still, this was Sherlock. Who knows what might be involved? Besides, he wasn't sure that he wanted to leave a burglar for any length of time to the not-so-tender mercies of Sherlock. So he rang for an ambulance on 999, and then he called the local police station nearest to the flat, insisting the St John's Wood Crime Investigation Unit treat it as a priority. As the perpetrator was still on the premises, he decided he could legitimately justify telling the local bobbies to put in an appearance. He knew from experience that otherwise it might be days before they got around to a routine break-in, so he made sure they agreed to send a car around as quickly as possible.

He then spent the next hour trying to finish the paperwork on his Murder Investigation Team's latest arrest. It was hard to concentrate on it, however, as his mind kept going back to his phone call with Sherlock. The man had not sounded upset or annoyed; he'd been _angry._ That worried Lestrade. The DI knew that Sherlock was rarely roused to anger. Sarcasm was his more usual reaction to someone doing something threatening. He'd been with him when suspects were apprehended, sometimes after a chase and pursuit that got physical before an arrest could be made. But Sherlock was almost always in control of himself. It was funny that; some of his own officers could lose it, if the victim was a child, or vulnerable adult- and an arrest would be a little "physical" as a result. One more reason for Sally Donovan to call him a Freak, when he didn't react the way the rest of the team did.

_So, what's got him angry this time?_ It kept niggling him.

Finally, he gave up and closed the report. He'd call it a day and head over to Baker Street to see what actually had happened. He came around the corner from the Underground Station and was surprised to see both a squad car and an ambulance still at the scene.

It might have been the black government car that was pulling away from the kerb that tipped him off that this was something more than just a simple burglary. And then he got really worried as he passed a flack-jacketed SO19 officer carrying away a pistol with a silencer on it in a transparent evidence bag.

He found Sherlock in the hallway of the flat, finishing his statement to a Sergeant from St John's Wood.

"…no, you can't interview her yet. She's still shaken by the encounter. A doctor is with her now in her flat back there. If she's feeling up to it tomorrow, she might give a statement."

Lestrade looked horrified. "Mrs Hudson?! Oh God, is she alright? Did the burglar hurt her?" _Oh no; now he's got motive._ Greg knew that Sherlock made a considerable exception to his sociopathic tendencies for his landlady.

"Bruises and scrapes; John is with her now."

The Sergeant looked annoyed at the DI's intrusion. "Just who are you, and why are you on my Crime Scene?" Greg showed his warrant card.

The Sergeant threw his hands up in the air, "Oh, for Christ's sake, now a Murder Investigation Team? To hell with it! I give up!" and he stalked off back down the stairs, watched by an incredulous Lestrade.

Sherlock just shook his head. "Don't bother, Lestrade. He's just in way over his head."

Lestrade shrugged his shoulders and opened his hands in a gesture of confusion. "What is going on, Sherlock?"

"Turns out that the burglar is claiming diplomatic immunity. That government car which just pulled away had some irritating fellow from the American embassy trying to pull rank. Your poor local policeman plod has just been pushed around by SO6, then SO19, then the Americans, _and_ finally Mycroft's lot. The chances of this ever seeing the inside of a courtroom are nil."

"What was he trying to steal?"

Sherlock looked at the DI. "I'm afraid that I can't answer that. According to Mycroft's minion, I am not at liberty to discuss it."

Greg rolled his eyes. "That normally doesn't stop you, so if you are going to refuse to answer my question, it's because you don't want me to know." He thought about it for a while, and then carried on "…which means it's probably something to do with the last time you called the police by firing a gun in the street in Belgravia."

"You might think that, Lestrade; I couldn't possible comment." He smirked.

The sound of a siren starting drew Greg and Sherlock back out to the street, where they watched the ambulance pull away.

"Why's it taken so long for them to take the man to hospital?"

Sherlock smirked. "Well, he landed in a rather awkward place- on top of Mrs Hudson's bins, in the back. Took them a while to realise he was there and then to figure out how to move him without risking a spinal injury."

"And exactly how many times did he fall out the window?"

"It's all a bit of a blur, Detective Inspector. I lost count."

Lestrade gave him a look, one borne of years of knowing him. _What the fuck, Sherlock? _

The tall brunet gave him one of those fake reassuring smiles of his.

Greg sighed and headed back across the road toward the underground station. He didn't like being kept on the outside; whatever was going on with this Adler woman was starting to really worry him. And he really. really didn't like Sherlock keeping secrets from him.

* * *

**Author's note**: once again I am indebted to Ariane Devere's Live Journal transcript for some of the dialogue above.


	48. Chapter 48

**Chapter Forty Eight: A Bit Not Good- Part One (of three)**

* * *

"Hurry up, John. We have less than thirty five minutes to get to Waterloo Station, and you know what the traffic is like at this time of day."

John glared at his friend. Sherlock was standing in the hallway with a slightly anxious look on his face, but that was no excuse. "Well, next time, don't keep me up all bloody night chasing shadows across the rooftops of London; not if you want me to be bright-eyed the next morning." The pair had spent a fruitless night trying to find a suspect who had vanished only moments before the police arrived at a murder scene. After almost an hour of traipsing across London to visit different tattoo parlours, Sherlock finally found his man- only to see him bolt up the fire escape and then off they went. Unfortunately, the man had given them the slip.

"Slip" was the operative word in another way, too. It was also why John was grumpy this morning. He'd taken too sharp a turn around one blind corner down an alley way and ended up on his rear end, after an unfortunate slip on black ice. After ascertaining that his flatmate was not seriously injured, Sherlock gave him a hand up and with a smirk muttered something about prats taking prat falls. The frustration of losing the suspect kept him quiet in the taxi, a fact that John was thankful for as he was having difficulty sitting on the part of his anatomy that was in pain. Even getting home had not helped much. What little time he'd spent flat on his back in bed was not as restful as he might have expected, simply because every time he moved, his bruises complained.

So, when he woke up this morning after a scant ninety minutes of sleep, it was to find Sherlock standing in the doorway of his room, reminding him that today was the day that he had agreed to meet Sam. John groaned.

"It's his fifteenth birthday, and I want to do something special with him. You said you would come." Sherlock waved three rail tickets at John: "The 9.49 to Bournemouth, departing from Waterloo. Sam's mother is dropping him off there on her way to work. We're going to have to be there to meet him."

"Where are you planning to go? You haven't told me yet."

"The final destination is a surprise, for both of you. I think you'll be interested. I know Sam will be delighted."

For a moment, John wondered if he could cry off, using his bruised behind as an excuse. But there was something about the look on Sherlock's face that made him think twice. _He so rarely gets interested in anything other than The Work or his experiments; the idea of him actually volunteering to spend time in someone else's company on something that isn't about HIM- well, that's too good an opportunity to miss._ Besides, John's one and only exposure to Sam had been unfortunate. The poor kid probably thought he was an idiot, and he didn't like that thought being reinforced by ducking out of the first time they were supposed to be doing something together.

So he dragged his sore butt into the shower, and then took two ibuprofen after he brushed his teeth. That made him wonder whether he or Sherlock would need to know what medicines Sam would have to take and when while they were away for the day. It worried him. _What happens if he gets into trouble- has a…melt-down or something, or just can't cope with the noise and crowds?_ He'd never spent time in the company of an autistic child- well, he had when he came to think of it; Sherlock acted like it often enough. That said, he knew Sherlock well enough to spot the signs, and to do something to avert the worst. Come to think of it, Sherlock actually did it himself nine times out of ten- removing himself from a situation which would cause him too much sensory overload or stress to be able to cope. Sherlock was a high functioning expert at avoidance strategies. (_Why do you think I don't do the shopping John? I am not trying to take advantage of you; I just can't tolerate the noise, sights, scents, and people involved.) _ While true, John knew that it was also a convenient excuse. The only time he'd ever seen Sherlock willingly enter a supermarket was when he was hot on the heels of a suspect who decided to cut through a Tesco as part of his escape strategy. (_The Work takes priority over personal discomfort, John. I could focus on the criminal and ignore all those other distractions)_

Because it was rush hour, they had to walk to the end Baker Street to catch a passing taxi. And the traffic was slow. He could feel Sherlock tensing up beside him. Most of the time when they were in the back of a cab, Sherlock focused on his phone and ignored the passing cars and the shifting scenery. Not today; he was counting off the familiar sights as milestones on their way, constantly shifting his estimation of how late they were going to be.

"Why is it so important, Sherlock?"

The tall brunet looked at him with a puzzled glance. "Familiar faces matter. She won't be able to stop, the Transport Police always move cars on from the drop off point."

John still didn't get it. Sam was fifteen, it wasn't like he was a child. Surely he could wait a couple of minutes. "Why not just text him to tell him to wait if we are late?"

Sherlock sighed. "You have no idea what a train station is, do you, John?"

The question confused him. "Um…the place where people get on and off trains?" Was this a trick question?

"Maybe to you it is. To Sam, it will be an unfamiliar place, a huge open space that is absolutely crammed with people, jostling, pushing; crowds of faces that he can't recognise, can't read to know what they are doing, or thinking about him. It will be full of noise and confusion. Some people will be running, which is frightening if you don't know why. There will be booming announcements on the public address system that are loud enough to be heard over the crowds of people talking, shouting. Then there are the smells- diesel from the trains, car exhaust, the food outlets- Waterloo has twelve retails units selling hot food to travellers. Oh, and then what about the visual impact? There are signs, enormous TV screens with moving images and electronic billboards, the train arrivals and departure boards. It's one huge assault on the senses, John, and hard as hell to manage on his own. Chances are, he will never have been to a station on his own, and it could quite simply be terrifying. So, unless you want him to start off his birthday with an experience he will never forget for all the wrong reasons, it is very important for us to get there before him."

"Oh." Yes, he could see that now. John had always loved the hustle and bustle of stations and airports. The excitement of people going to and coming from places- it was all about anticipation. "So, how do _you_ cope?"

That made Sherlock look away from the window and back at John. He had a furrowed brow. "What makes you think I do?"

John cocked his head to the side in surprise. "Well, you don't appear to be bothered by it. After all, we've been in stations on numerous occasions when chasing suspects or looking at crime scenes."

"Yes, exactly."

"..?.."

Sherlock sighed and looked back out the window. But he did answer. "The Work, John. I can cope with anything if it's for The Work. I can just block everything else out. But, take that away, and I am just as uncomfortable as I suspect Sam will be, if we don't get there soon. Why do you think I never take the Underground? Even for a case, it's just too much. And taxis are generally quicker, although this one is trying its best to be the exception that proves the rule." In frustration, he leaned forward and tapped the glass sliding window that separated the cab driver from the passengers. The red light came on as the driver turned the intercom on.

"What can I do for you, Mate?"

"We're not tourists. Take the quicker route. You know as well as I do that Westminster Bridge will be better at this hour than Vauxhall, and you can get onto Station Approach where we need to be dropped off. And hurry. Any hope of a tip depends on it." He switched off the intercom, and ignored the cabbie's scowl.

John tried to control his smirk. Sherlock was the bane of the London taxi world. He always had a better grasp of how to get from A to Z, despite the cabbies' famed "Knowledge" that made their service stand out from any other metropolitan area. But none could compete with the consulting detective's grasp of London traffic and its ebb and flows during the day. Unlike a cabbie, he had an incentive to take the quickest route, not the one which would earn him the most money. "A conflict of interest, John; and I don't pay them to take advantage of me." Well, actually, nine times out of ten when the two of them were in the cab, the doctor was the one who ended up paying. It had been a topic of discussion. Sherlock eventually allocated a sum to monthly taxi fare expenses and somehow it showed up in John's bank account. It was easier than trying to keep track of receipts.

As their cab started to pull into the rank of taxis depositing their passengers at the station, Sherlock rapped on the window again. "No- take us to the car drop off point."

"I'll get in trouble, if I go other than where I'm supposed to."

Sherlock glared at him.

"Oh, all right." The cab swerved out of the line of cabs and passed the lot, heading for a place reserved for car drop offs. John could see a young man standing there on his own, and guessed it was probably Sam.

As soon as the taxi rolled to a halt, Sherlock was out his door and onto the pavement. He walked straight over to the boy, who was looked down at the pavement. John thrust the money at the driver and got out, walking the twenty feet to join them.

Sherlock was standing about a foot away from Sam, talking quietly. For a moment, as he reached halfway to the pair, John was struck by the oddness. Sherlock was looking away from Sam, out at the steady stream of cars coming to drop off people. Yet, he was speaking to the boy, even if John couldn't make out the words over the sound of the traffic. Sam, on the other hand, wasn't looking at Sherlock either; his eyes were fixed on the pavement, with his head held at an awkward angle to ensure he could hear what the taller man said. The casual observer would know that something was just peculiar from their body language.

Sam was of average height and build for a fifteen year old; John saw enough of them as a GP locum to be able to size up weight and body shape to determine the general health of a youngster in the midst of puberty. Spots on his face would make him even shyer; sudden self-awareness of his own body and the changes it was going through would be unsettling for a normal adolescent. What would it mean to someone who was autistic? He remembered Sherlock's comment: "I could feel my bones growing."

When he got to them, Sam didn't look up. John took a breath, and opened his mouth to introduce himself, but Sherlock caught his eye and gave a tiny shake of his head.

John's concern showed in his quiet "Not good?"

Sherlock just said,"Hmm. This is John. We can do introductions when we're on the train. Are you ready to move, Sam?"

This was answered with a tiny nod.

"Have you got your reference point?" Another nod. Sherlock waited, while John puzzled over his question, but didn't interfere. It might refer to something the two had been talking about while John was paying the taxi driver.

Finally, Sam said. "Coat; I'll focus on the coat." His voice broke, going from a boyish treble to a teenager's tenor on the last word, and he flushed pink. John remembered how embarrassed he'd been when his voice suddenly betrayed him; Harry kept ribbing him about it for ages.

And then they were off. Sherlock strode through the archway into the station. Sam followed about 18 inches behind, his eyes glued to Sherlock's back- specifically, the bottom of his coat. John followed behind Sam, mirroring the distance he was keeping from Sherlock. The doctor realised the sense of the spacing as soon as they got onto the station concourse, which was absolutely teeming with arriving commuters, all rushing every which way to the six different entrances to the four Underground lines intersecting each other beneath the rail station. Sam was close enough to Sherlock that few people would try to squeeze between them, but far enough away not to bump into him when his course altered suddenly to deal with someone walking in front of him or across his path. Because Sam was watching Sherlock's coat, he didn't get the full visual impact of the station. And it was like a game, keep up with the tall brunet's darting journey to Platform 9. John was hard pressed to keep up.

When they reached the barrier, the flood of arriving passengers were pouring through most of the exit gates, but Sherlock headed for the one entrance onto the platform and fed his ticket into the machine, walking through when the electronic gates opened. John fed Sam's through and the young man shot through as if he thought the gates would spring back and catch him.

Once on the train, John realised that they would probably have the area almost to themselves- ninety per cent of the traffic at this time of day was going into London, not out. Sherlock chose an unoccupied foursome and put Sam on his inside, facing away from the direction of travel before taking the seat next to him on the aisle. John sat across from Sherlock, making it unlikely that someone would sit with them. A voice announced the train's destination and that the doors would be closing in one minute. Sherlock looked at John, but he could tell what his flatmate was saying was also for Sam's benefit: "We don't go all the way to Bournemouth; we get off at the seventh stop, Brockenhurst."

The train began to trundle out of Waterloo and southwest out of London.

John began to realise the Sherlock had planned this very carefully to avoid sensory stimuli. Looking at scenery out of the train window was easier if you were looking back at things the train had already passed. Looking forward would mean adjusting your eye continuously to keep pace with the train's speed. _So many things to think about. _He wondered how parents would ever realise the impact of something so simple as which seat they put a child could make such a big difference.

Before the train reached full speed, Sherlock reached into his shoulder bag and pulled out a bottle of water for each of the three of them. "Sam, this is my friend, Doctor Watson. He shares my flat at Baker Street. He's a doctor, but don't let that put you off. He also used to be in the army, and he works with me on cases."

John was watching Sam as this introduction was made. "Hi, Sam."

The boy just looked at Sherlock but then John realised that he was also being scrutinised by the lad, only out of the corner of his eye. He smiled reassuringly.

"Is he OK about people like us?" Sam was probably remembering the first time he'd seen the doctor, when John had managed to do just about everything wrong, because he didn't know the boy was on the spectrum.

This brought a smirk to Sherlock's mouth. He stared straight at John and said, "I trust him, and now that he knows, so can you."

John shot a look back at the tall brunet."Yes, Sam; If I can put up with Sherlock, I'm pretty bullet-proof."

Sherlock reached back into his shoulder bag and pulled out a wrapped present, which he put in front of Sam.

Sam's eyes grew wide looking at the shape, which suggested a book of some sort.

"Go on, open it up. You've got just under ninety minutes to plan your visit, and choose what you want to see."

Sam ripped into the paper, his excitement eclipsing any attempt to look a bit more grown up and nonchalant. "OH!"

John was able to read the cover upside down: The National Motor Car Museum, Beaulieu.

The brown haired boy didn't say thanks; he just opened the book and started reading. And he ignored them completely for the next hour. Sherlock reached into his bag and handed John a copy of the Times newspaper, and he pulled out his phone. The journey passed in companionable silence.


	49. Chapter 49

**Chapter Forty Nine: A Bit Not Good- Part Two (of three)**

* * *

When the train stopped at Brockenhurst more than a dozen people got off the train- mostly families. It was half term and the draw of the New Forest had pulled quite a few people to the area. There was the usual confusion as passengers unfamiliar with the station looked about for exits and a taxi rank. At least this far out in the country, there were no electronic barriers. An old-fashioned platform guard checked their tickets and then they were out in the car park. Sherlock scanned the area, and then headed off towards a red car that had a sign on the door, "Beaulieu National Motor Car Museum."

"Door-to-door service, Sherlock? Why do we rate this when the others have to take a bus?" John pointed to the bus stop that had a Beaulieu sign over it. A queue of passengers was already waiting.

As Sherlock settled Sam in the back seat of the chauffeur-driven car, he replied, "For once, I enjoyed putting Mycroft's little black book of personal contacts to use. The owner of Beaulieu is Lord Montagu; turns out his second son went to Eton at the same time as my brother. I called in a few favours."

In the car, Sherlock asked Sam whether he had decided on what he wanted to see. Beaulieu was not only a museum of cars, but it also had a country home, a medieval abbey and lots of parkland and gardens. But, he thought it likely that the boy's interests would be automotive.

"There are three cars. Just three I want to see."

John was puzzled. "But there are lots of cars in the museum, Sam; don't you want to see them all?"

The lad just shook his head. "Just the three Formula Ones. The rest are just…cars."

When the car dropped them off at the museum, Sherlock took them past the ticket line and in through a gate marked "Staff Only" where they were met by a very attractive young lady wearing the museum uniform. In fact, as John's appreciative eye took in the view, the blonde was filling out the uniform rather well, her curves shown off to good effect in the navy jacket and pencil skirt.

She gave them a dazzling smile. "Hello, I'm Linda Carter. Welcome to the UK's largest private collection of automobiles, gentlemen. I've been told that you have very specific interests, so I won't give you the standard tour. Just tell me what you are interested in, and we will go straight there."

Sherlock took charge. "It's the Formula One cars that fascinate my young friend here. And once you get us there, my other friend will want you to take him on a personally guided tour of your special temporary exhibition."

John looked at him, puzzled. "Just wait, John. This is a present for you, too. But let's get Sam sorted first."

The three of them followed her in through the main entrance of a big barn like building. Once in, John stopped in awe. There were literally hundreds of cars, a magnificent range of everything from ancient Model Ts to Rolls Royce Silver Ghosts, and a huge variety of sports cars of every shape size and configuration. It was a dazzling, bewildering display of automotive treats, to bring delight to every male who had ever had a love affair with a car.

Linda took the three of them in tow and moved smartly through the displays. Sam was watching the bottom of Sherlock's coat, and just ignored it all. The museum was busy with holiday makers- fathers with their sons, teenagers ogling the sports cars, retired couples enjoying a day out. The noise of the crowds talking in such a big space echoed around the exhibition hall.

In one corner, there was a larger group gathered. Miss Carter asked them to let her through and the crowd of appreciative men parted to give them prime position on the rope that kept the cars safe from prying fingers. John worried about how Sam would deal with the people pressing around the exhibit. One look, however, dispelled his fears. Sam's attention was riveted to the car. It was like he didn't see anyone or anything else in the room. _Now where have I seen that degree of focus before? _John smiled.

Sam was really looking. Linda managed to create some space for Sherlock and John as well, and started talking beside the rope.

"This one is Damon Hill's Williams-Renault FW18, built in 1996." The blue car was covered in brand sponsorship logos, but John could still enjoy the extraordinary lines, from the huge wheels that characterised all Grand Prix cars to the odd spoiler configuration that was needed to keep a car capable of such speeds on the road. He wasn't a follower of Grand Prix racing; his appreciation of cars tended more towards the sports cars- the Jaguar E type was an all-time favourite of his.

The blonde carried on, "1996 was the year when Damon Hill got the World Title that year, by winning …"

Sam interrupted to finish the woman's sentence, "…eight races."

She smiled. "A fan then, are you?" The crowd around the car had started listening into her.

Sam just nodded. And then he started, "It's a V10 cylinder, pneumatically controlled 3,000 cc engine that can make 700 plus horsepower and 16, 500 revolutions per minute. Capable of 220 miles per hour. That's 354.06 in kilometres. This particular car is Chassis Two- that means Damon Hill didn't drive it in the actual races; he used it as a test car to prepare for his races. In 1996 he won the Driver's title with nine pole positions and eight outright victories. Chassis Two was used by Jacques Villeneuve to win his two pole positions and one victory early in the season, and as a result Williams-Renault won the Team Constructor's title that year."

John's smile just kept getting broader as the boy went on. The crowd was listening, but Sam couldn't care less. He was no longer self-conscious about his voice, just mesmerised, and the facts were pouring out of him. The halting monosyllabic exchanges on the train were forgotten. _This is what he is good at. _ His eyes were devouring every inch of the car, just absorbing every detail as he started to move around it. The crowds stepped back to let him walk around the display.

When he got to the back of the car, Linda started to say something about the spoiler, but Sam cut her off. "It's not a _spoiler_, it's the drag reduction system. The DRS is an important part of the competition. In prep, drivers can use it anytime, but during the race, there are strict rules meaning it can only be activated when the car is within one second of the car in front. That's _close_." He gestured up to the cockpit. "There's a DRS dashboard light that shows when he can use it. But when you do, the next time you touch the brakes, then the DRS deactivates and the flap returns to neutral. You can't use it within the first two laps, and if the track is wet, they may decide it's too slippery."

John took a moment to glance at Sherlock who was watching Sam with a bemused smile. "I think your birthday present is a hit. You a fan of motor racing then? Do you understand what he's talking about?"

"Nope. Haven't a clue; not my area. I can drive, but what happens under the bonnet is just ...not interesting."

"Well, Sam would disagree."

"To each their own, John." He was content just to watch the normally non-communicative teenager talking at a mile-a-minute. Lestrade nephew was talking more to himself than anyone else; that others were listening didn't matter to Sam in the slightest.

After ten minutes, Linda gave up trying to keep up with the teenager. It wasn't exactly fair to expect her to know every one of the hundreds of cars' mechanical details, so she bowed to the boy's superior technical knowledge. John was beginning to find his own attention wandering under the onslaught of factual data.

Sherlock tapped Linda on the elbow and asked her to step back so they could talk without distracting Sam. "Miss Carter, my other friend is in need. Would you be so kind as to take him off to the temporary exhibition now? I can look after Sam, and we won't be going anywhere soon. After all, there is Michael Schumacher's Ferrari over there to keep him busy when he's done with this one. Why don't we meet up as planned for lunch at 1.30?"

"Are you sure?" When Sherlock made a shooing gesture with his right hand, John escaped with the Museum Guide.

"What's this exhibition then?" She was leading him toward an unmarked door, opening it with a Key fob.

"We will avoid the queue and go in the back door. I understand you are a fan of James Bond, Doctor Watson?"

"Yes", remembering the times that he had forced Sherlock to watch a DVD from his Bond collection. _It's an integral part of our culture, Sherlock; you can't really be British if you don't know it._

"Then you're going to _love _this exhibition."

And he did- it was called _Bond in Motion_ and it had every one of the iconic cars- all of the Aston Martins, the two BMWs, Goldfinger's Rolls Royce, you name the film, the car was there. But that wasn't all- to celebrate the Bond films' 50th anniversary, the museum had brought together planes, motorbikes (including the one Daniel Craig just used in _Skyfall_), speedboats and even a jetpack from _Die Another Day_ – in short, a film-fan's dream. Linda was a wonderful companion; turned out she knew every key scene, even some of the lines that were used when the exhibits were on screen. They spent a lot of time laughing and trading snippets of dialogue.

When his eyes and brain were just about full, she took mercy on him and escorted him to the museum's restaurant. It was heaving by now, full of families enjoying a day out. She took him right past the main dining room and up a flight of stairs into a private room. There he found Sam and Sherlock standing at the window, eyeing the plates of sandwiches put out there.

Linda just said, "And this is where I have to leave you gentlemen. As we discussed, Mr Holmes, you will be collected again at 2.15 for the next part of the tour. _Bon appetite_."

Sherlock watched, as John thanked her profusely and rather longingly watched her leave. "Found a fellow Bond fan, did you?"

"Ummm, yes- I think she'd be a marvellous Moneypenny, don't you?"

"I've always thought of my brother's PA in that role, myself. Shame that her boss is the most boring man alive."

John laughed. He was in a good mood.

And so was Sam, who was tucking into a sandwich as if he was ravenous.

John asked him "How was the other car?" and braced himself for another lecture.

"Cool." He kept chewing, but then stopped. "But, I wish it had been the one being serviced and the McLaren was on display. That's my all-time favourite, and I missed it."

"Would seeing all eight of James Bond's Aston Martins be any compensation?"

Sam just swallowed and took another bite. "No. Road cars, no matter what brand, well, they are, just boring."

"Why?"

The teenager gulped down half a glass of water. "Because they're too easy. Anybody can win a race if you've got a bigger engine, lighter chassis or different tyres. What makes F1 interesting are the rules. Every car has to have all the big things identical under the rules; that forces the engineers to really push design to the limits. Even a tiny technical improvement can make a team win. It's…brilliant."

oOo

The three of them were standing in a garage. Not just any garage. This one was the cleanest, most high tech garage John had ever seen. _More a science lab than anything else._ They were surrounded by machines that did things John couldn't even guess about. And computers everywhere- laptops, PCs, tablets in the hands of the mechanics. Well, that's who they'd been introduced as, but again, they looked like scientists, with white lab coats rather than grease stained overalls.

They'd been brought here after lunch for a private viewing. In the middle of the garage was the object of everyone's attention: a fire-engine red Formula One car, the McLaren Honda MP4/4-6.

Sam had already given them the technical specs: built in 1988, this actual car- "yes, it's the real thing, not a replica" explained one of the engineers in response to Sam's whispered question – this car had won both the World Driver's and Constructor's trophies that year. It won fifteen of the sixteen Grand Prix races that year- and came in second in the one it lost. No other car had ever achieved it.

And Sam was being allowed to get up close and actually touch it. There were no ropes to stop him here. For the first ten minutes, he'd been so overwhelmed he couldn't speak. Just looked at _everything_ and almost hummed in anticipation. He stood beside Sherlock and tried to control his excitement. Then, when he was invited to touch the car, his hand actually trembled as he put it onto the fiberglass body.

The chief engineer explained that the car had been removed from the exhibition for a week to allow some Coventry University graduate students to conduct tests on it. "It's still in perfect running order; Lord Montagu insists on it. So, while we have it up on blocks, we are also doing some maintenance."

If John thought that Sam had enjoyed his morning, he realised now that the teenager was really in heaven. He and one of the mechanics were trading chassis specification details just as fast as the teenager could get them out of his mouth.

"The engine's next door. We've been putting it through its paces, because that's what the Coventry guys want to study. Want to take a look?"

Sam could only nod, as if he didn't trust his voice.


	50. Chapter 50

**Chapter Fifty: A Bit Not Good- Part Three (of three)**

* * *

"OH." Sam's eyes were out on stalks, totally fixated on the gleaming metal engine that was sitting in its own specially designed stand. Wires were running into it all over the place, leading to computer screens and other machines that John didn't have a clue about. It reminded him of a patient on an operating table, hooked up to just about every piece of life-saving equipment a hospital could throw at them. At each screen and machine, a young man was standing in excited anticipation. They were all wearing their Coventry Uni sweatshirts emblazoned with the words 'F1 Testing Project'.

Sam's voice kept breaking, but it didn't stop him. It sounded like he was reciting something from memory: "Engines can be no more than 2.4 litres in capacity. They must have eight cylinders in a 90-degree formation, with two inlet and two exhaust valves per cylinder. They must be normally aspirated, weigh at least 95 kilograms and be rev-limited to 18,000rpm. No air cooling, turbocharging or superchargers are allowed. "

One of the engineers smiled at the boy. "Yes, it is strange. We could easily make it weigh less and rev more; no problem, just use composite materials."

Sam looked at him askance. "That would be cheating!"

The man laughed. "Yes, it would- which is why they constantly test every single component independently by F1 officials before a car is passed for use."

He looked over at John and Sherlock. "We're going to be testing it running at full throttle for five minutes. I don't suppose you've ever been in a pit during a race, so prepare yourself for one of the loudest sounds you will ever hear. We'll be starting slow, but after twenty seconds we will open the throttle to maximum, at which point the five minute timer will start. You can keep your eye on the wall clock over there; it will be showing the test duration." He eyed the teenager. "You gonna be okay with this, lad? It's so loud it will hurt, even with protection."

Sam nodded. "I've watched it on telly at full volume just to understand it."

The mechanic smiled. "Well, prepare yourself for something a whole lot louder. TV recording microphones automatically dampen down the decibel levels."

He handed them all headphone shaped ear defenders, amazingly thick. When John had his on, he realised the engineer was still talking, but he couldn't hear a thing. The man gestured to his own set and touched a knob on the earpiece. When John did the same, he could hear the guy's tinny voice saying that no F1 engine had its own starter motor; they were always started with an external device.

The engineers and the students in the room all had ear defenders around their necks, which they now put over their ears. The signal was given, and the engine roared into life.

The sound was like nothing John had ever experienced before. And 'experience' was the operative word. It wasn't just a case of _hearing_ it; he could feel it, too. In the army, he'd been next to artillery guns being fired. But the difference between a mortar going off, or even a tank round, was that it was incredibly loud boom- and then it stopped. This noise didn't stop, in fact it was getting louder by the second.

The chief engineer made a gesture, pushing his fist forward, telling the man controlling the throttle to open it up fully. John gasped, as his skin under his clothes felt the pressure of the sound- it was a really strange sensation- like a hand was pushing him. He glanced over at Sam, to see how the boy was taking it; the doctor worried if sensory overload would be troubling him.

The boy's body language said it all. Face set in a grimace of almost pain, yet grinning with delight, too- he was just caught by the combination of both pain and pleasure. Sam hugged his arms to his chest, but John realised that nothing was going to make the teenager move away, and he relaxed a bit.

That thought made him glance back at Sherlock, who was standing behind them.

One look and John realised that it wasn't Sam who was in trouble; it was Sherlock. He, too, had crossed his arms in front of his chest, but unlike Sam, the tall brunet was not taking any pleasure at all from the experience. He looked pale, and he was almost panting. _Uh oh._ John tried to get eye contact, but the taller man was just staring off across the room at the wall clock that was counting down the seconds of the test.

After a minute and a half, Sherlock just closed his eyes for a moment, and John reached out to try to get his attention. When John's hand touched Sherlock's arm, the taller man flinched and took a sideways step to avoid the contact. His grey green eyes found John's for a split second and he mouthed the words- _Stay._ He flicked his eyes to Sam and gestured weakly to John that he must stay with the boy. And then he turned and fled from the room.

It was one of the longest three and a half minutes John had ever experienced. The seconds ticked off as he watched Sam's obvious enjoyment, and worried about what was happening to Sherlock. He felt torn. The other people in the room didn't know about Sam, so he couldn't leave him, just in case it all became too much for him. But, his imagination was leading him in places he didn't want Sherlock to be.

When at last the clock hands hit the five minute mark, the engine cut out. At the same time as the graduate students ripped their headphones off, so did Sam. The chief engineer read out,"152 decibels" and the figure was greeted by whoops and cheers, those of the boy blended with the rest of the test team. For an F1 fan, it must have been the experience of a lifetime.

But John was worried when Sherlock did not reappear. He handed back his headphones and Sam's, then thanked the chief mechanic. "Sam, we need to find Sherlock."

The boy looked surprised. "Where is he?"

"He had to leave; I think the noise was too much for him."

"Oh." Sam looked confused, but he followed John out of the room, along the corridor and out of the building. John scanned the area around from the doorway. And saw a figure over by one of the out buildings about 100 metres away. Sherlock was sitting down, back against the wall, his legs stretched out in front of him.

John decided that running would probably frighten Sam, so he just set off at a quick walk.

Sherlock's eyes were closed. His face was turned up toward the sun, as if seeking its warmth. As John drew closer, he could smell the scent of vomit, and spotted a dark patch on the dirt to Sherlock's left. The doctor could hear his ragged breaths, too, and realised that his friend might be in the middle of a panic attack.

Before he could say anything, Sherlock spoke first. "Alright Sam?" He opened his eyes and looked at the boy, with his usual forensic scrutiny, looking for signs of distress.

"Yeah, fine. Better than fine; that was brilliant."

"Good." He was getting his ragged breathing back under control.

"Sherlock…" John was a little constrained. He didn't want to worry Sam, but he was really concerned. Sherlock reached into his shoulder bag and drew out his half-finished bottle of water. He took a mouthful, swilled it around and then rather delicately spat it out beside him, in a rather matter-of-fact way.

The brunet then got to his feet a little unsteadily, avoiding John's offer of a hand.

Sam was looking down at the ground, but also at him, out of the corner of his eye.

Sherlock took a deep breath. "Sam, what was the final decibel count?"

"152"

"Then that explains it."

John looked confused.

The brunet started walking while talking in a calm voice. "At 14O decibels of continuous noise, did you know that the human throat and vocal chords will resonate with the sound? At 141, it can induce nausea. At 144 the human nose will start to itch due to the vibrations of the hairs in the nose. At 145 the vision blurs because the eyeball starts to vibrate in sympathy. At 150 breathing is affected, because your lungs start to vibrate to the sound, and you get a sensation of being compressed as if underwater. At 152, the vibration becomes painful because it is felt in the joints. Ear defenders only protect your ears. I am glad the rest of it didn't bother you, Sam."

"Yeah, well- it kind of did, but it didn't matter. I mean, the sound is coming from the engine and I know what the engine is doing, and it's OK. It hurts- yeah, of course it does, but the pain's ok, 'cos it means I was there to see it and feel it and know something more about F1. This is what I want to do. Not the engine thing or work in a pit, but the design stuff. It was just…so cool. The whole thing, this whole day…it's just wicked."

oOo

Back on the train, it was much busier than it had been on the way down to Brockenhurst, so the three of them had to split up. Sam went inside, next to the window, and Sherlock on the aisle, where he could get some more leg room. John sat in an empty seat across the aisle three seats further forward of the pair. But he kept glancing back to keep an eye on the pair.

Sam was exhausted by the whole experience, and he only managed to keep his eyelids open for about fifteen minutes before the rocking of the train put him out. The teenager slumped in his seat and then when the train took an arc to the left, he ended up leaning up against Sherlock, sound asleep for the rest of the journey. The brunet did not avoid the contact. He spent most of the trip with his own eyes closed, but John knew he wasn't asleep. There would be too much stimulation going on- the sound of other passengers talking, the faint rhythmic hissing leaking from someone's iPod earphones, people walking up and down the train corridor on their way to the loo or the buffet car. Not to mention the seven stops, with the guard announcements before during and after each one.

When they got to Waterloo, it was almost dark. This time, Sherlock asked John to lead the way, but stopped on the other side of the ticket barrier, to ask Sam what his reference point would be. "If you give him the shoulder bag, I can use that." Sherlock handed it over, and the threesome set off for the taxi rank. Sherlock had arranged to drop Sam off at New Scotland Yard, so Lestrade could take the boy home to his family for their birthday celebration.

Greg was waiting out front as the taxi drew up. The fifteen year old, now refreshed from his nap on the train, bounded out. The DI had a big smile for his nephew. "Alright then?"

"Yeah. It was great."

"So, what do you say, Sam?"

The teenager looked confused for a moment. "Oh! Yeah- thanks."

Greg just rolled his eyes and smirked at John and Sherlock in the taxi. "Teenagers are all the same- an ungrateful lot. See you later."

As soon as the taxi pulled away from the kerb and headed north towards Baker Street, Sherlock leaned his head onto the cool window and closed his eyes.

John looked at him. "You okay, Sherlock?"

"Mmm. Fine. I'm fine. Glad that Sam can handle that …noise. It worried me that it might put him off his passion. Good to know it hasn't."

As the taxi went around Marble Arch, Sherlock spoke again. "Just remind me, John, never, ever to accept a case that involves a crime scene at a Grand Prix race track. I don't think even The Work would be enough to keep me focused against that kind of assault on my senses."

_But you were willing to endure it for the sake of a fifteen year old boy. So much for that self-confessed sociopathy._ John smiled, but kept quiet all the way back to Baker Street.


	51. Chapter 51

**author's note: **A bit back in time from the story line I'm running in Crossfire, but one that needs to be put in place. Just what did Lestrade make of the Five Pips and the Great Game?

* * *

**Chapter Fifty One- Bomber– a five +1**

* * *

Lestrade was a heavy sleeper. His wife, Louise, was not. This was a considerable inconvenience for a DI in charge of one of the Met's twenty three Murder Investigation Teams, simply because murders happen most often in unsocial hours. So, when the phone went in the middle of the night, nine times out of ten, she was the one who eventually found his mobile and answered the call. It didn't endear him to her. "I have to work, too, Greg- but, unlike you, once I've been woken up, I find it hard to get back to sleep. So, your work ends up screwing up my work. Have you noticed that it never seems to work the other way around?"

This time when she shook him awake, he blearily said "What's up?" She just thrust the phone into his hand and stalked off to the bathroom, muttering.

He managed a sleep slurred "Lestrade."

The voice on the other end identified himself as Police Sergeant Richards, from CTC. He'd been asked by an officer calling it in on an airwave radio to give Lestrade a call, regarding a civilian who was being treated for cuts from flying glass. It took Lestrade's sleep fuddled brain a moment to connect the three pieces of crucial detail. _Civilian…. Counter-Terrorism Command….flying glass _with himself.

"A bomb? Sherlock Holmes has been involved in a bombing?!"

"We're not entirely sure if it is a bomb, sir; that's what we are investigating. But, between you and me, if they call this one a gas leak, then I will eat my badge."

By now, adrenaline had woken Greg fully. "Where?" He kicked aside the bed sheets and got up.

"218 Baker Street."

_Shit- that's directly across the street from Sherlock_. "Is he alright? What's the damage?" Greg tried to keep his anxiety from making him sound unprofessional to a colleague. Greg put the phone on his shoulder and pinned it there between his neck and ear, as he grabbed clothes from the drawer.

"Amazingly lucky, sir. Shattered windows all down the street. But it happened late, so most people were in bed asleep- and on that row of houses, the bedrooms are in the back. Apparently, this chap was in the front room, and got some glass fragments in the back. But, he's kicking up a fuss with the paramedics who want to take him to hospital. The landlady just told me to call you."

_Where's John?_ "Did he say where his flatmate is? Is he OK? He's a doctor."

"The landlady said the other tenant had gone out, not due back tonight."

"Tell them I'm on my way."

oOo

Lestrade was a veteran of the IRA's City campaign- when bombs went off at St Mary Axe, then Bishopsgate, and then in Canary Wharf. He'd been around as a teenager when the Wimpy Bar on Oxford Street went up, too. But the IRA wanted to make a loud bang, without necessarily killing people. In 2007, the 7/7 bombings had shown him just what could happen when civilians were targeted. But, as a Yard DI on Homicide, his involvement had been tangential, and no one he knew personally had been caught up in the horrors of that day in July.

So nothing prepared him for being one of the first on scene at Baker Street. SO15 had taken charge of the area, and the Counter Terrorism Command was out in force. He couldn't get within a thousand meters of the place without having to get out of his car and show a badge. As he walked closer to Baker Street, he watched a steady flow of civilians going in the opposite direction as they were escorted from their houses. A constable told him that all but those injured were being moved to the St Cyprian Church hall up at the top of Baker Street until the area could be judged safe for return. He kept going and turned the corner onto Baker Street.

For a split second, he was just so shocked that he ground to a halt. In the emergency lights that had been set up all down the street, he could see that the entire façade of number 218 had been blown out; bricks and rubble littered the road. The front of Speedy's Café had been smashed in, like a giant fist had plunged straight through the plate glass windows. 221b's windows were gaping black holes, as were most of the windows up and down the street. Fire engines were parked at either end of the road and firemen were putting out the blaze that still flared on 218's ground floor.

At the far end, beyond the fire truck he could see at least half a dozen ambulances, and he realised that if Sherlock and Mrs Hudson were still there, that's where they would be.

He saw Mrs Hudson first. She was standing on the pavement, wearing an overcoat and a scarf, and clutching an orange blanket around her shoulders. He came up to her and put a comforting arm around her.

"Mrs Hudson, are you alright? Your message got through to me."

She turned and Greg could see that she'd been crying, but she brightened when she realised who it was. "Oh, Detective Inspector, I am so glad you are here. Maybe you can talk some sense into him. He won't go to the hospital; he's just being so stubborn."

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine. The ambulance crew checked me over; I was in my bedroom in the back. The police want me to go up with the others to the church hall, but I won't leave him."

"Where?" Lestrade looked around. She pointed at the third ambulance along. He looked back at her and then grabbed the arm of a passing constable. "Officer, you are going to take Mrs Hudson to St Cytprian Hall right now." He looked at her with a reassuring smile before she could protest. "I'll look after him, Mrs Hudson; you need to go get warm. If anything happens, I will get word to you, OK?"

She hesitated, but the constable took her arm and said, "Let's go, mam. You're just in the way here, and we can't be sure that there won't be another explosion." Lestrade just strode off to the third ambulance.

He heard Sherlock before he saw him, and that raised a smirk. "Get off of me, you idiot. I am not in need of your assistance. Go practice your ghastly first aid skills on someone who actually needs you."

He came around the back of the ambulance to see Sherlock sitting on the back bumper of the vehicle. Despite the cold night, he was dressed only in his pyjamas and blue dressing gown, and he had one bare foot on the ground. He was trying to remove what Lestrade guessed would be a piece of glass from the ball of the other bare foot.

"Giving the emergency services your usual grief, Sherlock?"

Greg frowned when the tall brunet did not respond; in fact, he gave no indication that he even knew that Lestrade was standing there. There was a paramedic in the back of the ambulance who heard him, however, who gestured towards his ear. "He can't hear very well yet- too near the blast radius." He shot a rather long suffering look at the DI. "I hope you know him and can talk sense into him. That fellow over there had no luck." He pointed to a man in a suit standing about ten feet away watching him. Lestrade guessed it might be one of Mycroft's minions, or maybe an SO6 plainclothes officer. Sherlock was oblivious to the conversation, focussing on using a pair of tweezers to extract another piece of glass from his foot.

Greg started to reach for the brunet's shoulder, but hesitated. He knew Sherlock loathed being touched, but he was concentrating so hard on his own foot, that he wasn't seeing the DI. So Greg sat on the bumper next to him. The movement and the shift of weight on the ambulance made Sherlock look up. "Evening, Detective Inspector, not really your division, is this? Why are you here?" It was said in a louder than normal baritone.

Lestrade pitched his reply at somewhere below a shout, but loud enough he hoped to get through. "I'm here because you're being an idiot, and they think I can convince you to go to the hospital to get checked out."

Sherlock looked back down at his foot which was bleeding now. He gestured to the paramedic in the back of the ambulance. "Now you can make yourself useful. I could do with that antiseptic and a proper bandage." The paramedic started to apply the antiseptic, but Sherlock just snatched the wipe from his hand and shoo'ed him away. "Look, but don't touch." The man just rolled his eyes, and then looked pointedly at the DI. He gestured to the orange blanket that was around Sherlock's shoulders. Lestrade stood up and walked around to take a look. There was blood seeping through, from the younger man's back.

As Sherlock put the finishing touches on the bandage around his foot, he said to Greg. "Need a finger." The silver haired man obliged, putting his index finger on the crossing gauze strands, which Sherlock then tied off.

"Sherlock, look at me." He said it loud enough to get his attention, and then looked at the pair of grey green eyes that lifted to meet his. "Your back is bleeding; there's likely to be glass in there, and _you_ can't reach it. Where's John?"

The brunet frowned and looked back down at his foot. "Out."

"Yeah, I got that from Mrs Hudson." He fished into his own pocket, and switched his phone on.

The baritone voice sounded too loud. "You won't get a signal. CTC will have blocked all mobile traffic." Lestrade looked sheepish; of course, standard protocol in a terrorist incident.

"Tell me where he is and I'll get a constable to pick him up."

Sherlock shook his head." No, let sleeping dogs lie. I don't need him."

There was something a bit abrupt in that statement which made Greg whether the two flatmates had been quarrelling about something. With Sherlock, it was likely. John's patience wasn't inexhaustible. He decided Sherlock was his responsibility. He called the suited man over, and then said quietly, "Go upstairs into 221b and collect some warm clothes, shoes, his coat. Oh, and don't forget the blue scarf."

Sherlock was watching but having difficulties understanding what was said. He frowned as the agent strode away, at last glad to have something useful to do. "He's an idiot. I told him to piss off twenty minutes ago, but he's too scared of my brother to do anything but lurk."

Lestrade leaned a little closer and spoke louder, "Where is Mycroft? I'd have thought this would be right up his street."

Sherlock just shook his head. "He's never here when he's needed, just gets in the way when he's not. According to his PA, he's in Rome and won't be back until tomorrow morning. He could just stay there forever, for all I care."

Greg felt the anger that was just there under the surface. The situation was getting to Sherlock. "Do you think this is personal?"

"What do you think?" The brunet looked at him, those penetrating grey green eyes telling Lestrade what he really didn't want to hear. The DI sighed. "Then best we get you to a place of safety, Sherlock. I can't get a car anywhere near here; you'll have to get out of here by ambulance. We've got to get that glass out of your back, and then you'll come home with me." Sherlock started to protest, but Greg cut him off. He saw something glinting in the unruly hair, reached over and pulled out a sliver of glass. "Stop it. You can't go back to the flat until they've declared the area clear. I'll get Mycroft's man to sort out some boarding for the windows. If you're with me, then when the area is cleared, I will be told and I can bring you back here. So, no arguments."

When the agent reappeared with his clothes, Lestrade told him to sort out the windows and secure the flat, guarding it from intruders until he could be relieved in the morning. The brunet reached for the comfort of his Belstaff coat, but Lestrade intercepted it. "You don't want to get blood on it, do you?"

Sherlock looked back at the blown out windows of Baker Street, with something of a forlorn look. Then quietly, "Will you come with me in the ambulance?"

Greg could only guess what that admission of his need for company had cost Sherlock. He nodded, then looked up to see a relieved paramedic's smile. He clambered into the ambulance behind the injured man, and they left for UCL Hospital.


	52. Chapter 52

**Chapter Fifty Two- Bomber– a five +1 (Part Two)**

* * *

Greg was feeling a little worse for wear after spending half the night at UCL hospital's A&E. Once Sherlock's back had been seen to, four slivers of glass removed, bandages applied and then officially discharged, the DI took him home and put him to bed on the sofa. Louise had just sighed, after being woken twice on the same night. "Don't let him bleed on the sofa, Greg; that's all I ask" she said in a resigned tone, and turned over.

The next morning she left before 7am without a word or even a backward glance at the pile of blankets on the sofa that presumably contained one sleeping consulting detective. Even before he headed for the bathroom for a shave and shower, Greg had checked in with CTC. The area was still being cleared of rubble, but no other devices had been found. The Forensic teams were crawling all over 218, but 221 was OK for a return, based on a check conducted by "another agency that must remain nameless", according to his CTC contact.

As they drove to Baker Street at eight o'clock, he issued Sherlock with firm instructions. "Do NOT cross the street. Do NOT interfere with the forensic examination of the premises. I've been told that if you do, you will be arrested and carted off to detention. Let them do their jobs without interference, please."

Lucky for him, as the car pulled up to the police tape at the end of Baker Street, he spotted another black government car parked. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Greg just said in a warning tone, "Looks like the first flight from Rome got in early. Play nicely with your brother, Sherlock; I know he can be a pain, but really, you don't want to pick a fight now."

And he went back to work, hoping that the BBC news report of the gas leak explosion would prove to be just that.

oOo

Of course, it was too much to ask. CTC contacted him before 10am to say that a package was on its way to him. It had been found in a high grade military fire safe in 218- an undamaged envelope addressed to Sherlock Holmes.

_Shit. This is…different._ In all the years of working with Sherlock, it had been the consulting detective who had gone after the criminals, not the other way around. While suspects and even convicted criminals had often threatened retribution for their apprehension, it had never led to much- a couple of beatings, a lot of posturing. But, to date, no one had tried to blow him up.

When Lestrade explained to the CTC officer that the intended recipient was across the street from where the envelope had been found, he got a lecture. As per instructions from "another agency" received more than four months ago, "all Met contact with said individual now had to be conducted through DI Lestrade", so _he_ was being sent the package. It arrived with a note to say that it had been X rayed and examined to ensure it did not contain anything dangerous, and that no fingerprints or other trace had been found either- oh, and if it contained anything even vaguely relating to terrorist activity to tell them. Instead, he made the call to Sherlock.

He was relieved to see that John was with Sherlock when the consulting detective showed up. _Something tells me that Sherlock is going to need all the friends he's got on this one._

Greg was puzzled when the envelope yielded a disturbingly familiar pink phone, with a strange recorded message and an attached photo. More worrying, Sherlock deduced that all three things combined meant they were being warned that there would be other bombs. Now standing in the basement flat of 221, the DI was watching Sherlock focus on a pair of trainers- which were sitting on an otherwise mouldy and damp living room floor.

"He's a bomber, remember." John warned Sherlock as he crouched down and started to reach for the shoes. After a few moments of his silent examination without touching anything, all three men jumped slightly when the shrill sound of a mobile phone was heard. Sherlock stood and pulled the pink phone from his pocket.

"Hello?" Sherlock put the phone on speaker, so John and Greg could hear a woman's voice draw in a shaky breath and then say tearfully, "H-hello…sexy." Whatever Lestrade was expecting, the incongruity of the words and the tearful tone chilled him right to the core.

Sherlock's soft response, "The curtain rises," did nothing to dispel his concern. John phrased the question that they obviously both had when he asked "what?"

Sherlock's "Nothing" didn't satisfy either of the other two men. John looked worried; Greg could only think that something crucial was being kept from him; something that he wouldn't like. His unease was not decreased when the brunet just said, "I've been expecting this for some time". Then came the chilling statement from the woman on the phone; Sherlock had twelve hours to solve the puzzle or the caller, who was using the woman to voice his demands, would be "so naughty." Then the phone went dead.

Sherlock swept up the shoes, and announced he was off to Barts to use the lab. Lestrade protested- "Sherlock, that's evidence!"

"Yes, and at the rate your Forensic service works, it will be evidence for yet another bombing. Leave this one to me, Lestrade. You can't possibly get this done in time." The two men locked eyes for a moment, then the brunet just walked past him to the door.

Greg couldn't resist. "What makes _you_ think you can?"

That stopped Sherlock long enough for him to lean back into the room. Through gritted teeth, "didn't you _listen_? This is a _puzzle_- a challenge directed at _me_. You asked last night if I took that explosion personally- well, you have your answer. Now, time is ticking on, so excuse me, but you can see yourself out."

John followed, casting an apologetic look to the DI as he went past.

"John, get him to text me when you know anything; better yet, could you do it, please? More likely to be kept up to date that way."

A "yes" floated down the stairs, leaving Lestrade to give one last look around the room, before he too made his way up. He had a bad feeling about this.

oOo

The DI went back to New Scotland Yard, and fretted. He had no leads to speak of, so he called CTC back and demanded that they hand over the fire safe that had survived the bomb. Maybe that would lead to a clue as to who had placed it and the bomb in the house. One had to assume that the two events were linked. _Hell of a way to get Sherlock's attention. Mind you, it worked. If I wanted to intrigue him, this is one way to do it._ He worried about whoever had been forced to make the call on behalf of the bomber- what form of duress was being applied? She sounded so frightened and distressed.

He texted John.

**11.45am Any ideas? Can that call be traced? GL**

**11.52am He's working on the shoes. And- no, he says the caller is too smart to be traceable. JW**

**11.53am Does he know who the bomber is? GL**

**11.56am He may, but he sure the hell isn't telling me. JW**

Two hours later, Anderson reported to Lestrade that the fire safe was a standard military issue, used in Afghanistan on a regular basis, and in every Army barracks in the country, too. The fire had obliterated any trace, any fingerprints, anything other than soot. Chance of locating the bomber from that was nil.

In the meantime, life in the Yard went on as usual. There were other investigations on-going, and he got reports from the team as they worked on their existing cases. Sherlock had been right last night, this was not his division. Bombers were treated as counter-terrorist threats first. They'd only given him the safe becuase of the connection with Sherlock. Bombs were just not in the DI's remit. But that didn't stop him from worrying about it. Two and a half hours after John's last text, Lestrade rang his CTC contact and asked what the initial view was on the nature of the bomb. "That's the queer thing, Detective Inspector. On the one hand, the initial fire service analysis indicated gas leak. Now, however, we've changed our view. Yes, gas was involved- the bomber just left a gas tap open in the fireplace. But, we did eventually find what set it off. It's a tiny bit of straight, old fashioned semtex. Then we found a fragment of detonator wire that is also IRA standard issue. Mind you, the boys haven't seen one of these in donkeys' years. Not one of the provos; in fact, even the IRA moved on from this stuff before the decommissioning finished in 2005. Suggests someone had access to old supplies in Northern Ireland and decided to get clever. "

Lestrade drew in a shaky breath. "I don't suppose that fact is going to become common knowledge?"

There was a knowing chuckle on the other end of the phone. "Not on your life, matey. We've got bigger fish to fry with the Islamicists these days."

Four hours after John's last text, Lestrade got another one.

**16.04pm Need everything you've got on file on schoolboy Carl Powers, 1989, South London, death by drowning; 'tragic accident'. JH**

**16.05pm Who is Carl Powers? GL**

**16.06pm Owned the trainers JN**

_How the hell did Sherlock figure THAT out? And what does it mean? _Greg sent the file via PC on a motorbike. But not before reading it and spotting the original station report, included a note about a ten year old boy coming in and demanding that they investigate the dead boy's 'missing shoes'. _How did I know that the name of that boy would be Sherlock Holmes? _ That fact cranked up Greg's anxiety levels another five notches. If the bomber knew something about Sherlock that he didn't, then the threat was somehow magnified.

At six o'clock, Lestrade was getting positively antsy. Four and a half hours to go until the bomber's deadline. He texted John.

**18.02pm Any news? GL**

There was no reply, not for more than a half hour. By then Lestrade was pacing, and wondering whether to go to Baker Street to see what the hell was happening.

**18.50pm I was out. Now back at Baker Street. He's thinking. JW**

To hell with that, Lestrade puffed out his cheeks, and made a decision. He called Louise to tell her he wouldn't be home for dinner, in fact, not to wait up, as it might be a long one. There was a resigned sigh at the other end. "Just be quiet when you come in, will you? I can't face two nights in a row of interrupted sleep."

He was half way to Baker Street when his phone chirped an incoming text alert.

**7.35pm Cracked it! Go find the woman- bomber's set her free: she's in a Tesco car park in Lostwithiel, Cornwall. Tell the police to be careful- he thinks she's wired to a bomb! JW**

For a split second, Lestrade looked at the message in disbelief. Then police training kicked in and he shouted at his driver to turn around and head back to the Yard, before dialling the office and asking for the number of the Cornish Police force HQ.


	53. Chapter 53

**Chapter Fifty Three- Bomber– a five +1 (Part Three)**

* * *

Greg's night was long and tedious. What kept him going was caffeine, adrenaline and a growing anxiety about just what the hell Sherlock had gotten himself into this time. Liaison with a police force as far away from London as Cornwall always had its challenging aspects, such as trying to explain the bombing scenario to a DI more used to domestic disputes and the odd burglary against a holidaymaker's empty second property. In the end, army staff from Plymouth had to cross the Tamar Bridge into Cornwall to ensure that the woman in the Tesco car park in Lostwithiel could be safely removed from the jacket of semtex she was wearing. That took half the night, and by the time it was done and the woman safely returned to her family, Lestrade decided it was easier just to stay at the Yard, rather than wake Louise up, yet again.

He texted John and Sherlock at 8am and asked them to come to the Yard for a debrief.

Now facing the two of them, Greg was in no mood to waste time on pleasantries. As soon as they got in his office, he let loose. "I need an explanation, Sherlock. Why and how would a bomber know about a kid murdered twenty three years ago, especially a case where _you_ were involved?"

"I don't know how and I don't know why. Perhaps we should concentrate on questions we can answer." Sherlock's face as impassive. He then asked what the night's investigations had revealed about the woman's abduction and how she had been set up as a hostage.

John was seated opposite Greg, and listened intently to the DI's description of how the woman had been taken hostage by two masked men, who had forced her to drive to the car park, and then dressed her in "enough explosives to take down a house." During this description, Sherlock had stood with his back turned, gazing out of the glass window that separated his office from the team room. Greg carried on with his description that the hostage was told to "phone you. She had to read out from this pager..." He slid it across the desk to John, who picked it up to look at it.

The tall brunet just finished his sentence for him, "…and if she deviated by one word, the sniper would set her off."

John then completed the thought. "..or if you hadn't solved the case."

Greg frowned. "No, semtex can't be set off that way. The kit is being examined by the army counter-terrorism experts now, but their initial view is that the sniper was there to convince the woman that she was being watched, and that if she tried to get out of the jacket, he'd detonate it. It's a standard mobile phone detonator connection, apparently- and the phone was probably in the hands of the sniper- a belt and braces approach, according to the army."

Sherlock had moved back to the window into the office. "Oh…elegant."

That made John's head snap around; "Elegant?" His disbelief at the inappropriateness of the word was made abundantly clear.

Lestrade was more used to Sherlock's odd appreciation of criminal sophistication; he'd been on the receiving end of such comments on a number of occasions. Most criminals invoked sarcastic criticism about their unintelligent stupidity, but every once in a while, something would attract Sherlock's aesthetic appreciation.

That said, applying it to something like this irritated the DI. If the threat to an innocent hostage was not enough to get him wound up tight, he was also fuming about not knowing who was behind this. He guessed that Sherlock probably did know, but was keeping that knowledge to himself. His frustration boiled over, "But, what was the point. Why would anyone _do_ this?"

If Lestrade was looking for reassurance, Sherlock's reply certainly did not qualify. "Oh, I can't be the only person in the world that gets bored." The DI's eyes widened and he was about to ask what the hell that meant, when the pink phone beeped a message alert. Both he and John watched Sherlock activate the phone and hit the speaker key: "You have one new message."

The phone then played the familiar Greenwich pips, but this time there were only three short and one long pip, which John commented on, and Sherlock confirmed. "First test passed, it would seem. Here's the second."

He turned and showed the phone to the others- a photo close-up of a car with the driver door open and the number plate clearly visible. As John and Greg took a closer look, Sherlock commented "It's abandoned, wouldn't you say?"

"I'll see if it's been reported." Greg picked up his phone to get onto the Met's connection with DVLA to get the car's owner identified by the license plate number.

Then Sally popped her head in the office door, to say that there was someone for Sherlock on the phone outside- it was where calls to Lestrade would be diverted if his line was engaged. Sherlock left the office and picked up the phone.

Lestrade was put on hold, while the officer chased down the details on the database. He watched as John got up to join Sherlock outside. Something was going on, he could tell by the look on John's face. Then the officer started speaking, and Lestrade noted down some details on a scrap of paper. He then immediately dialled the Southwark police station where the car had been reported as being abandoned. After taking note of the details, he swept out and announced, "Right; found it; let's go."

There was an atmosphere in the car. Lestrade was in the left side of the passenger seat, John was in the middle looking at Sherlock with accusation in his eyes, but the consulting detective wouldn't meet his glance, preferring instead to look out the window. Sally was in the front seat. It wasn't until they were halfway across Blackfriars Bridge that Sherlock spoke again. "That call I took in your office was from the bomber, speaking again through a hostage. This one's a young man. He's outside somewhere, sounds like a city centre. I could hear cars, buses, pedestrians."

Lestrade just sat forward, turned his head and nailed Sherlock with a look. "That means lots of civilians at risk, not just the hostage."

Sherlock nodded. "I've been given eight hours to solve this one."

John's face betrayed the dismay that Greg felt. The DI lost it, and just growled, "What the hell is going on, Sherlock. _Who_ is playing such deadly games?"

There was no answer.

oOo

As they drove into the crime scene, Sally added fuel to Greg's irritation. "Given the Freak's timetable, it's a good thing that the Southwark station team was already on site at the car. They found it late yesterday, abandoned on a construction site. They have been processing the car ever since, because they found blood. I hope they checked it for booby traps."

They passed a woman police officer interviewing another woman, as the four of them approached the car. Lestrade consulted his notes, taken down when he was on the phone. "The car was hired yesterday morning by an Ian Monkford; banker of some kind, City Boy, paid in cash."

Greg could hear Sally and John talking in the background; sounded like she was giving John a hard time about "hanging around" Sherlock. _She never gives up; never been willing to see the value of having his help._ Having Sherlock involved in a case always made her uncomfortable.

When Sherlock investigated the inside of the car with Lestrade looking over his shoulder, they both spotted the blood in the space between the two front seats. The DI grimaced at the quantity. "Before you ask, yes, it's Monkford's blood. The DNA checks out." The Forensic investigator had taken a sample last night, and the suspect's wife supplied some material to corroborate the findings.

"No body."

Sally was the one to reply. "Not yet." She crossed her arms and glowered. But Sherlock didn't even look at her. He just said to Lestrade, "Get a sample sent to the lab" and strode away. The DI just looked at Donovan, making sure she understood that he expected her to comply. She stomped off in exasperation to get an evidence kit. He decided to hang about the car just to make sure that the DS did take the sample. She'd been known in the past to wilfully misunderstand something that the consulting detective needed. He opened the back door to see if there were any clues there. When he moved onto the boot, he glanced over to see that Sherlock was talking to the woman who had been with the police constable earlier. He couldn't see his face, just that of the woman.

"Donovan, who's that over there, talking to Holmes?"

Sally peered through the car windows; she was on her knees scraping a sample of dried blood into an evidence tube. "The PC said it's Monkford's wife."

The next time Lestrade looked around, it was to see Sherlock and John striding away from the crime scene. He sighed as he watched them disappear. _Side-lined, again._ The Di's frustration boiled over yet again.

**12.13pm Where are you? What's going on? You HAVE to keep me informed; this is a police investigation! GL**

There was no reply from Sherlock, so Greg resent the same message to John.

**12. 27pm On our way to car rental firm, Janus Cars. I'll keep you up to date. JW**

Lestrade gathered more background information from the Southwark team. He spoke to Monkford's wife, who said that her husband had been depressed for some time, seemed he was about to be made redundant at the bank, or at least was afraid that it was coming. He noted the bank, and sent Donovan off to interview his co-workers to see if any insight could be offered. Could Monkford be the person that the bomber was using as his voice this time? Greg was struggling to understand how this could have any connection to the previous "puzzle piece" that the bomber had set. Could there be a link between Monkford and Carl Powers? They might have been contemporaries at school; they'd be more or less the right age. The wife was no help on that score- she knew he'd been to school in South London, but had no idea what the name of the school was. Greg realised that wasn't suspicious; after all, he had no idea the name of Louise's school, just that it had been in Barnet. He organised the move of the car to the police compound for further forensic examination. As the car was loaded onto the truck, he glanced at his watch and grimaced. Half way to the deadline.

His phone chirped, an incoming text alert.

**13.37pm At Bart's Lab now. He's testing that blood sample. JW**

Ten minutes later, another text asked Lestrade whether the car had been moved yet. He agreed to meet them at the police vehicle compound.

First thing Greg said when they were shown in was "Sherlock, you don't go off on your own without telling me what the hell is going on. There are innocent lives at stake. We've only got three hours left."

"How much blood was on that seat, would you say?"

When Greg answered about a pint of so, Sherlock's reply was rapid fire- "Not 'about'. _Exactly _a pint. That was their first mistake. The blood's definitely Ian Monkford's, but it's been frozen."

The DI's incredulity was clear. "Frozen?"

"There are clear signs. I think Ian Monkford gave a pint of his blood some time ago and that's what they spread on the seats.

Lestrade took some comfort in the fact that John seemed just as confused as he was. "_Who_ did?"

The consulting detective's smirk as in place as he answered, "Janus cars. The clue's in the name."

An inveterate crossword addict, John knew this one. "The god with two faces."

Sherlock's smirk broadened. "Exactly."

Then he turned to Lestrade and let rip. "They provide a very special service. If you've got any kind of a problem- money troubles, bad marriage, whatever- Janus Cars will help you disappear. Ian Monkford was us to his eyes in some kind of trouble- financial at a guess; he's a banker. Couldn't see a way out. But if he were to vanish, if the car he hired was found abandoned with his blood all over the driver's seat…"

John butted in. "So where is he?"

Sherlock closed the car door. "Columbia."

Whatever Lestrade was expecting, it wasn't a South American country best known for its drug trade. He couldn't keep the incredulous question out of his voice. "Columbia?!"

"Mr Ewert of Janus Cars had a twenty thousand Columbian peso note in his wallet, quite a bit of change, too. He told us he hadn't been abroad recently, but when I asked him about his cars, I could see his tan line clearly. No one wears a shirt on a sunbed. That, plus his arm."

Greg was starting to feel like a bloody parrot, but he couldn't help it as the question popped out, "His arm?!"

Sherlock carried on, "Kept scratching it. Obviously irritating him, and bleeding. Why? Because he'd recently had a booster jab. Hep-B, probably. Difficult to tell at that distance. Conclusion: he'd just come back from settling Ian Monkford into his new life in Columbia. Mrs Monkford cashes in the life insurance and she splits it with Janus Cars."  
_  
_John beat Greg to the next question, "Mrs Monkford?"

"Oh, yes, she's in on it, too."

Lestrade just looked down at the floor, a look of amazement on his face.

"Now go and arrest them, Inspector. That's what you do best." He turned to John and said, "We need to let our friendly bomber know that the case is solved." He strode away, with John by his side, leaving Greg reeling. He watched as Sherlock pump his fist, and the triumphant "I am on _fire!_"

That both amazed and scared Greg. Sherlock was _enjoying_ this far too much. The deadly timetable was pushing his deductive skills to the limit, but he was not horrified by the idea of a bomber setting up these bizarre challenges. _It's all just a game to him. _ Greg was getting increasingly worried about where this might end. But, he didn't have time to think about that now- he had people to arrest.

oOo

An hour later, Greg was on the phone to the Columbian authorities, armed with an arrest warrant for the Monkfords. The owner of Janus Cars was in custody and speaking to Sergeant Donovan, providing details of how it had been done, and where to find them. His mobile then went, and when he pulled it out of his pocket, he read the text:

**5.32pm Pick up the second hostage at Piccadilly Circus. Be careful; he's still wired, but the sniper's gone. SH**

Greg pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. It had been one hell of a day, but he picked up the phone and got started.


	54. Chapter 54

**Author's Note: ** As ever, the dialogue excerpts are from Ariane DeVere's excellent transcript on tumblr. With thanks for the rocket fuel…

* * *

**Chapter Fifty Four- Bomber– a five +1 (Part Four)**

* * *

Lestrade was so tired after the Piccadilly area was cleared and the young man brought in for questioning that he let Sergeant Donovan interview him. Just told her to find out everything she could about how he was abducted, and what if anything the youth could tell them about the MO of the bomber. There had to be a link between the two, but for the life of him, he couldn't figure it out. The woman in Cornwall had been so traumatised by the experience that her doctor insisted that the Cornish police delay questioning her. So, Greg hoped that the young man would be more resilient, and therefore more helpful.

He went home, had a shower and sat there like a zombie at the dining table. Louise just served up dinner and looked at him. She shook her head as she put the first bite of mushroom risotto into her mouth. He started shovelling the rice in, but his brain was still trying to come to terms with Sherlock's bomber. How he'd pieced together the Monkfords' disappearing act based on a pint of blood and a rental car firm was just about the most obscure of his deductive exercises in the entire time that Greg had known him. And comfortably within the time limit set by the bomber. Not that the hostage had really appreciated it, he was sure.

"You're just a bundle of fun tonight, aren't you, Greg?" Louise sighed and cleared up the now empty plate in front of her husband. He could hear the sound of washing up in the kitchen. He moved to the sofa and then stared blankly at the screen when she came in and turned on the telly to watch another one of her favourite soap operas. He vaguely heard the northern accents and concluded it must be Coronation Street.

When his mobile went off, he picked it up and went back into the kitchen.

"Hello, Guv. Thought you'd like to know the results of the interview. The hostage was one Charlie Johnson – a football fan down in London for the day, from his home in Beaconsfield. He'd come to see the Chelsea Match, but never made it there. Took a taxi from Paddington, thinks he fell asleep and the next thing he knew he was in the back of the taxi with three masked men. He woke up already dressed in the bomb jacket. Bomb squad say it's an exact match to the one worn by the Cornish woman- that arrived this morning and was taken apart at the seams, so they had one to compare Johnson's with. They gave him a pay-as-you-go phone and a pager, told him what he was going to have to do to stay alive, and then dropped him at Piccadilly Circus. He was told to make the call when the pager gave him instructions, and that a sniper would be watching his every move from one of the buildings. Told him to watch the red dot on his chest if he even thought of trying to contact anyone or speak to someone passing by. You know the rest."

She took a breath. "If you want my opinion, sir, I don't think he was specially selected- just happened to be the person who took that taxi from the rank at the train station. It could have been anyone."

Greg sighed. "Any info on his kidnappers? What about the cab driver? Do you think he could identify him?"

"He didn't even look at the driver before he got in the cab- I mean, who the hell does? He said he thought the guy was white, middle aged, wore a flat cap, spoke with a London accent- in other words like hundreds of taxi drivers. And there is no way to know whether he was the real thing. No taxi licence number, no number plate, no nothing. And the three men? That's even worse- dressed all in black, with balaclava masks. All white, all "big and scary" – Charlie's words, not mine."

She carried on. "No joy with the parka they made him wear- it's well worn- probably a jumble sale or thrift store item, a line discontinued years ago. The pager is also a standard issue NHS job, used in just about every hospital in the country. Someone clever re-programmed the pager number, so it's off the grid, and the only number calling it was traced to another burn phone."

She sighed. "Someone is very, very good at this, sir. No forensics at all. Drew a sample of the hostage's blood to see if the drug they used is going to show up, but Charlie doesn't remember a thing- no one sticking him with a needle, or drinking anything in the taxi. He says he has a vague recollection of being driven out of Paddington Station and heading down to Bayswater Road, and then nothing."

Lestrade's reply was succinct. "Damn." A deep breath, then "OK, Donovan, you've done the best we can with the poor hostage. Set him loose, and go home to get some rest yourself. Something tells me this is far from over."

"Sir? This is all to do with the Freak, isn't it? Someone's spinning out these cases just to watch him do his thing. Do you want me to bring Holmes in for questioning?"

He thought about it. What Sally was saying was logical, if brutal. Greg had the feeling that Sherlock knew more than he was letting others know. On the other hand, the idea that he was somehow _involved_ in the bombing and the subsequent two cases was ridiculous. _Oh, Sherlock ,PLEASE don't be a prat about this; I really need you to be honest with me._ He felt his tension headache growing in ferocity by the minute.

"Guv- taking Holmes into…I don't know, protective custody or something…might make the bomber stop his campaign. Give us a chance to slow things up and get ahead of him somehow."

The DI just didn't buy it. "Give it a rest, Donovan. He's not the enemy here. Someone is targeting him; yeah, I get that. But, he hasn't been directly threatened, and somehow I don't see him volunteering to keep a low profile, do you?"

"Maybe, sir, but the hostages take a different view. They want to know why they were plucked out at random to be terrorised, and so far the only reason we can give them is because they were being used to taunt Sherlock Holmes. It's not good, sir; if it happens again, and he screws up, then we're going to have a dead body, an innocent civilian killed, just because he fancies his chances of solving another case. It stinks, sir, and we really should be doing something to put a stop to it."

"Your views are noted, Sergeant. Now go home and get some sleep. I will see you tomorrow morning."

oOo

Lestrade was half way through his second coffee, standing in front of the evidence board in the team room, looking at the photographs of the Carl Powers case and the Monkfords' deception. _What's the connection? There has to be a connection._ Both cases had to have been selected because they had meaning for Sherlock. The first one certainly did. He'd read the file now; there was no way that a police officer would have given a ten year old boy the benefit of the doubt when he turned up at a station demanding that an accidental death be re-opened as a murder enquiry just because a pair of trainers had gone missing. It made Greg remember his own incredulity at a sixteen year old lad's utter certainty about the accidental death of a Ukrainian merchant seaman in a barroom brawl. _At least then he was involved in the crime scene._ Could there be some aspect of the Monkfords' case that Sherlock wasn't admitting- some personal connection? He'd been investigating the murder of a banker a couple of months ago- that was DI Dimmock's case- a suspected suicide, which Sherlock proved was in fact murder. He left a voice mail message on Dimmock's number: "Need a word about that banker case you did with Holmes. Was there any link to another banker called Ian Monkford?"

Then his mobile phone went. He checked caller ID, and smiled. "Sherlock- your ears must have been burning because I was just thinking about you. I need to talk to you about Ian Monkford."

Sherlock interrupted. "No time for that now, Lestrade. _He's_ rung again. This time there is something about a woman who died two days ago. I'm off to Barts to look at Connie Prince's body. John tells me she's something in daytime TV. Meet us at the morgue." He sounded like he was about to hang up.

"No, wait! _SHERLOCK_!"

"What?" He sounded annoyed.

"Is there another hostage involved? Is it the same MO? Come on, gimme; you can't just leave another innocent person out there dangling!?"

There was a very brief moment of silence, then Sherlock replied. "The bomber said, through the hostage, of course, that 'this one is defective'. Turns out she's blind, and she's old- that's for sure. Yorkshire accent. That's all I know- oh, and I have twelve hours."

"Did he say anything else?"

"Nothing relevant to the case, so if you don't mind, I'd like to get started." He hung up, leaving Lestrade looking incredulously at his phone.

He went out into the team room. "Alright, listen up- we've got another one. Start looking for an old woman who's gone missing, blind, with a Yorkshire accent. She's the hostage this time. She might be in Yorkshire, London, or anywhere- no ideas of location yet. And drag out everything you can on the death of Connie Prince- two days ago, find out which team is investigating that and get them in here ASAP to share data."

Sally Donovan was in motion before he could finish speaking. But, she caught his eye and gave him a meaningful look. Then she turned to the team. "Right, and we need to investigate what links there are between this death and Sherlock Holmes. There is a connection- we just don't know it yet."

oOo

Lestrade led the way into the Morgue, reading from a file. "Connie Prince, fifty-four. She had one of those make-over shows in the telly. Did you see it?"

"No."

"Very popular; she was going places."

"Not any more. So- dead two days. According to one her staff, Raoul de Santos, she cut her hand on a rusty nail in the garden. Nasty wound." He bent over the body on the slab to look closely at a wound on webbing between her right thumb and index finger. "Tetanus bacteria enters the bloodstream- goodnight, Vienna."

John was on the other side of the table. "I suppose."

Sherlock's face showed he was thinking it through, and not happy with the diagnosis on the autopsy report. "There is something wrong with this picture….Can't be as simple as it seems, otherwise, the bomber wouldn't be directing us towards it. Something's wrong." He swooped down close to the body, looking through his magnifier.

"John?"

The DI watched the doctor look up from the body at the detective.

"The cut on her hand, it's deep. Would have bled a lot, right?"

"Yeah."

"But the wound's clean- _very _clean, and fresh…How long would the bacteria have been incubating inside her?"

Lestrade started leafing through the file for the Coronor's report. The doctor answered first, "Eight, ten days."

Sherlock straightened up and smirked, waiting for the doctor and the Di to put the pieces together. Watson got there first, again. "The cut was made later."

Greg finished the thought, "…after she was dead?"

Sherlock's know-all tone was in full flow, "Must have been. The only question is, how did the tetanus enter the dead woman's system?" He then asked John, "You want to help, right?"

"Of course."

"Connie Prince's background- family, history, everything. Give me data."

John was watching Sherlock. Lestrade got the feeling that the two of them were communicating without speaking; it was always a bit weird to watch them at a crime scene. John was more than just a medical opinion, more than a flatmate, more than a blogger. He seemed to have a catalytic effect on Sherlock's deductive capacity. But, Lestrade wasn't getting the thread here. How could the method of a woman's tetanus infection matter to a bomber? But, whatever it was, John just left the room to get on with the back story. Sherlock took another look at the corpse, and then turned to leave.

Lestrade decided he could not afford to miss the opportunity of being alone with Sherlock. "There's something else that we haven't thought of."

"Is there?" The brunet sounded sceptical.

The DI stared at his retreating back. "Yes. Why is he _doing_ this, the bomber?"

That stopped Sherlock, but he didn't turn to face Greg. That told him a lot. He'd obviously touched a nerve, so Greg pressed him. "If this woman's death was suspicious, why point it out?"

Sherlock said nonchalantly, "Good Samaritan?" He started to walk.

"…who press-gangs suicide bombers?" Greg wasn't having it. _I won't be deflected. Not this time, there are lives at stake other than yours._

Sherlock amended his comment, "_Bad_ Samaritan."

That flippancy annoyed Greg. "I'm- I'm serious, Sherlock. Listen- I'm cutting you slack here. I'm trusting you- but out there somewhere, some poor bastard's covered in Semtex and is just waiting for you to solve the puzzle. So just tell me- what are we dealing with?"

If he had hoped for an honest answer, the DI was disappointed- and disturbed. Sherlock's reply -"Something New"- was not only purposefully vague, it was delivered with an almost child-like delight. Lestrade was still trying to understand his enigmatic comment long after the consulting detective had left the room.

oOo

He took the time to check in with this team. "Any news on the hostage?"

Sally was abrupt. "Give us a chance, Guv. There've been no reports in any force's jurisdiction about an elderly person from a care home or hospital. A couple of dozen reports of dementia sufferers going walkabout, and we're looking into that, but my guess is that the bomber would want someone playing with a full deck of cards for this role, otherwise it wouldn't work. Given the timetable, I just don't think we are going to get anywhere pursuing this line of enquiry."

She drew breath. "You, on the other hand, have had the chance to ask the Freak what the hell connection he has to a talk-show host who specialises in house wife make-overs. Any joy on that front?"

_Why do I always feel like I am on the back foot when talking to Sally about Sherlock?_ Lestrade just grunted. "He knows something but isn't talking."

"Great." Her sarcasm was clear. "You know he is our best lead. If I were you, I'd be hauling him over the coals by now, or holding his feet to the fire until he talks."

Lestrade chuckled. "Good thing that the Met protocols don't include instruments of torture then, isn't it, Sergeant?" But, he knew that she had a point. So he headed for Baker Street. Third time around he wasn't prepared to wait for Sherlock to solve this one.

When he let himself in and climbed the seventeen steps to the flat, he could already hear the tell-tale sound of Sherlock's pacing. What he wasn't prepared for when he got into the living room was the sight of the wall over the sofa. Covered in photos, bits of paper, string- this was Sherlock's equivalent of the Yard's evidence board. He looked at it carefully; there was more on this one than his own. He listened as Sherlock paced behind him, muttering, "Connection, connection, connection. There _must_ be a connection." The brunet then came up alongside Lestrade and gestured to the wall. "Carl Powers, killed twenty years ago. The Bomber _knew_ him; _admitted_ that he knew him. The bomber's iPhone was in stationary from the Czech Republic. First hostage from Cornwall, the second from London, the third from Yorkshire, judging by her accent. What's he doing- working his way around the world? Showing off?" Greg could hear the frustration in the younger man's voice, and his body language was telegraphing just how keyed up he was.

The sound of a phone stopped his question. He watched Sherlock take the pink phone out of his pocket and scan for the caller ID. He answered, and listened to what Lestrade could vaguely hear as the tremulous tones of an elderly lady. Less than a minute later, the brunet just looked at Lestrade, and moved the phone back into his pocket. He raised his hands into a prayer position under his chin and contemplated the wall again.

"Sherlock, _what the hell? _Was that the bomber again? What did he say_?"_

"Nothing; it was just to tell me that I've only got three more hours. He was taunting me about connecting up the dots."

Lestrade just looked at him. _Yeah, well I can understand the feeling._ "So, when are you going to tell me who is behind this?"

Sherlock just ignored him and turned away from the wall, strode over to the table where his laptop was open. "DATA. I need to gather more data. There is something missing here." Lestrade turned back to the wall, torn between the need to know and the worry that pushing Sherlock right now might distract him from solving the case. And that meant an old lady's life could be forfeit.

So, he bit his tongue and turned back to the wall. A few minutes later, Mrs Hudson arrived, carrying a tray of tea, biscuits and little sandwiches.

"Sherlock, when was the last time you had anything to eat? John just phoned me to say he's worried you're not keeping to that diet of yours."

"Hmm." He cast a quick glance at the tray, then turned his eyes back to the laptop. "Can't eat biscuits or bread."

"I know that; these are for the Detective Inspector. I put in the fridge the items Angelo's delivered while you were out, and I'll heat them up now."

"I don't eat when I'm working, Mrs Hudson. You know that."

She was already in the kitchen and the Di could hear the microwave going. After the ping, she arrived with a plate and put it beside him with a fork and napkin. Then, she poured him a cup of tea,. Before he could even consider take a sip, however, a phone went. For a moment, Greg tensed, thinking it was the bomber again, then he realised that the brunet had answered his own phone, not the pink one that was still in his pocket. Sherlock got up and wandered into the kitchen, talking monosyllabically.

She gave Greg a bright smile. "How do you take your tea, Detective Inspector?"

"Milk, no sugar, Mrs Hudson, and you really shouldn't have gone to the trouble."

"It's no trouble." She came to stand next to him and looked at the wall, somewhat aghast. "Oh, I do wish he'd think about what all this does to the wallpaper."

Behind him, Lestrade could hear him talking ("Great…Thank you…Thanks again.") _Since when does Sherlock THANK anyone? What's he playing at?_

Mrs Hudson looked at the photo of Connie Prince and was sad. "It was a real shame. I liked her. She taught you how to do your colours."

Lestrade was distracted, watching Sherlock at the fireplace, just finishing his call. He didn't understand what Mrs Hudson meant. "Colours?"

"You know…what goes best with what. I should never wear cerise, apparently. Drains me."

Sherlock re-joined them, but Greg couldn't resist. "Who was that?"

Staring at the wall, Sherlock said "Home Office" in a distracted voice.

Lestrade was surprised. "Home Office?!"

"Well, Home Secretary, actually. Owes me a favour."

As if she hadn't heard their exchange, Mrs Hudson carried on. "She was a pretty girl, but she messed about with herself too much. They _all_ do these days…People can hardly move their faces. It's silly, isn't it?" She giggled. "Did you ever see her show?"

Sherlock replied, "No" his voice loaded with distain. He showed Lestrade his laptop, playing a video of the show. Mrs Hudson identified the dead woman's brother, and commented that there was no love lost between them, if the gossip columns were anything to go by.

Sherlock nodded. "So, I gather. I've just been having a very fruitful chat with people who loved this show. Fan sites- indispensable for gossip."

When the video finished its course, Mrs Hudson made her excuses and collected the tray. Before departing, she looked at the plate of uneaten food on the table, and the cup of cold tea, untouched. She was still tutting as she descended, but Sherlock and Greg were still absorbed in the evidence wall.

The silver haired man decided he couldn't wait any longer. "You're going to have to tell me, Sherlock. This has gone far enough. Just who is this bomber and why is he doing this to you?"

Sherlock frowned but didn't look at the Detective Inspector. His eyes suddenly widened. Greg knew that look, but just as he opened his mouth to ask, he was stopped by the sound of Sherlock's phone going off again. The brunet pulled it out his pocket, checked caller ID, and then raised it to his ear. His body moved in eager anticipation.

"John." His excitement was palpable.

Lestrade couldn't hear what was being said. Sherlock just replied, "I'll remember." He listened and then said, "I'm on my way." He ended the call, looked briefly at Lestrade and then spun on his heel, grabbed his coat and tore down the stairs, leaving the DI chewing the inside of his cheek in sheer bloody frustration.

Greg fumed all the way back to New Scotland yard. He _knew_, after years of watching Sherlock that the man had just had an epiphany, a moment of knowledge, where clues connected, puzzle pieces slotted together and a solution was at hand. _So, why the HELL didn't he tell me?_ In all the years of knowing the consulting detective, Greg had never felt so left out of things. It was upsetting, as if Sherlock didn't trust him. That distressed and worried Greg in equal measures. He had such a bad feeling about this.

oOo

With just over one hour to go, he told Sally Donovan to go home.

"Sir?" The idea of being sent home just as the deadline approached was just…impossible. "I can't stop now, sir. We might still find the hostage." Lestrade just shook his head. "You've done your best. Every care home, every hospital, every social worker's been alerted and no one has reported an elderly blind woman missing. Whatever happens now, it's up to Holmes and Watson."

"Well, sir, time to realise that the Freak isn't infallible. With respect, Guv…" Of course, he knew she meant it _without_ respect. She'd never respected what the man could do. He just put his hand over his weary eyes for a moment, and said, "Go home, Sergeant. There's nothing more _you_ can do."

He could feel the heat of her indignation as she grabbed her handbag and jacket off the back of her chair and slammed the door on her way out.

The next voice he heard with John Watson's, followed by Sherlock's, as he opened his eyes.

"Raoul de Santos is your killer- Kenny Prince's houseboy. Second autopsy shows it wasn't tentanus that poisoned Connie Prince- it was botulinum toxin." He dropped a folder on Sally's desk in front of Lestrade. As he reached for it, the brunet leaned in closer to him. "We've been here before. Carl Powers? Tut-tut. Our bomber's _repeated_ himself."

Lestrade swept up the file and started to head for his office, with Sherlock in tow. "So, how'd he do it?"

When Sherlock replied "Botox injection", John's head snapped around in surprise. Lestrdea stopped mid-stride. "Botox?!"

Sherlock set off on one his little lectures: "Botox is a diluted form of botulinum. Among other things, Raoul de Santos was employed to give Connie her regular facial injections. My contact at the Home Office gave me the complete records of Raoul's internet purchases…He's been bulk ordering Botox for months. Bided his time, then upped the strength to a fatal dose."

Behind Sherlock's back, Lestrade could see John Watson's expression turn from surprise to anger.

"You're sure about this?" Lestrade wouldn't normally call into question one of Sherlock's solutions, but John's reaction bothered him.

Oblivious to the doctor behind him, Sherlock just said "I'm sure."

Greg replied, "Alright- my office." He'd get started on the arrest warrant for de Santos.

He was aware that John had stopped Sherlock from following, and listened to their exchange as he walked on.

"Hey, Sherlock, how long?"

"What?"

"How long have you known?"

Lestrade could hear the smirk without even having to see him. "Well, this one was quite simple, actually, and like I said, the bomber repeated himself. That was a mistake."

John's anger was evident. "No, but Sherl…the _hostage_…the old woman. She's been there all this time."

"I knew I could save her. I also knew that the bomber had given us twelve hours. I solved the case quickly, that gave me time to get on with other things. Don't you _see_? We're one up on him!"

The doctor's disapproval followed Sherlock into the DI's office and stayed there like a dark cloud. Lestrade had to agree. If Sherlock had solved it earlier, but left an old blind lady to suffer for hours more as a hostage, then that was just beyond belief. He knew that empathy was not something the man understood, but he had not seen him be purposefully cruel before. _What the hell is going on Sherlock? This is just making you into something I don't recognise._

In a matter of moments, Lestrade had herded Sherlock into his chair, and standing on one side of him with John on the other, said "Let's get an old woman out of danger, shall we?" It was said through gritted teeth.

Sherlock opened Greg's laptop to find his own blog site, and he typed into the comment message box: **Raoul de Santos, the house-boy, Botox.**

Almost instantly the pink phone on the desk rang.

Sherlock answered. "Hello?"

Greg couldn't hear what the old woman was saying.

Sherlock said firmly, "Tell us where you are. Address."

The woman must be saying something, because Sherlock suddenly cut in, "No, no, no, co- don't tell me anything about him. _Nothing!"_

Then the tiniest of pauses, followed by Sherlock saying "Hello?"

Greg took one look at Sherlock's reflection in the glass window of his office, saw the look on his face, and blurted out, "Sherlock?" in a horrified tone.

John picked up on it and followed with a "What's happened?"

Sherlock lowered the phone from his ear slowly and wouldn't look at either man as he bit his lip. Greg knew then that something terrible had happened. John could see the distress in the brunet's posture. He didn't touch him, but braced his hand on the back of Sherlock's chair, as if holding back from giving comfort. "She said he had a soft voice…"

oOo

It took another seventy minutes before they finally found out where the old woman had been. Within seconds of realising what must have happened, Greg's training kicked in, and he was on the phone to the night duty officer: all forces and fire services in the country to be alerted about an explosion. No matter what it might appear to be, they were to investigate it as a potential bombing, and to call the Yard.

For the next hour, Sherlock stayed silent, seated at Lestrade's desk. Greg could see John trying to talk to him, but the consulting detective gave no reply- in fact, it was as if he wasn't hearing. After a quarter of an hour, John gave up and came out to find a coffee from the machine down the corridor. While on hold to the fire services national control room, Greg gave him a questioning look, but John just shook his head and muttered something about "mind palace".

When the news came through that a block of flats had been severely damaged in a gas explosion in Rotherham, South Yorkshire, Sherlock shook off his lethargy long enough to stand with John and Lestrade as the DI turned on the flat screen TV on the far wall of the team room. The 24/7 news coverage on the BBC had the first on-scene photos. The three men watched in silence as the presenter reported that the suspected gas leak in the 1960s bloc had claimed the lives of at least ten victims, but the fire services were still on the scene and the casualty figures could mount. In the background, ambulances were leaving with sirens and lights flashing.

John looked at Sherlock, watching the news report without a trace of expression on his face. He looked worried as he watched his friend gather his coat and scarf from where he had thrown them off on his way into Lestrade's office.

"Sherlock." There was a tough line of determination in Lestrade's voice, but no condemnation. He then said quietly, "It wouldn't have mattered if you'd made the call any earlier. She was likely to have said that whenever you rang. This is the bomber's doing, not yours."

Sherlock did not turn around. "I know." The tone of voice was flat and emotionless.

Greg crossed his arms and looked at the brunet's back. "So, there's no time for the usual sulk about not getting it right. I need you firing on all cylinders in the morning, because I'm guessing that this isn't over yet."

There was no reply. John sighed and made to follow him. Lestrade tried one more time. "John- keep me informed. Maybe if we can work closer together, this won't happen again." The doctor nodded grimly and then ran to catch up with Sherlock.

_(Slowly, staring ahead of himself, Sherlock lowers the phone from his ear. He bites his lip as Lestrade – realising that something bad must have happened – straightens up and sighs. John braces a hand on the back of Sherlock's chair.)  
_


	55. Chapter 55

**Author's Note: ** As ever, the dialogue excerpts are from Ariane DeVere's excellent transcript on tumblr. If you've ever wondered about how Greg coped with Sherlock during the Great Game, well, the answer is ...he didn't take it very well!

* * *

**Chapter Fifty Five- Bomber– a five +1 (Part Five)**

"It's me. Have you found anything on the South Bank between Waterloo Bridge and Southwark Bridge?"

Greg had been dreading this call. Expecting it, but dreading it, nonetheless. The DI had barely managed to get five hours of sleep, what with liaising with the Rotherham police, fire service and the gas company. A decision had been taken by the CTC in the Met to advise all three to describe it as a tragic accident caused by a faulty gas line. The case was related to an on-going investigation, and an early disclosure could complicate their work. For once, Lestrade was glad that they were back, interested in the case again.

His CTC contact, Commander Troughton, made it plain. "Someone just playing with semtex doesn't do it for us, but deaths cause by a bomb need to be investigated. So, we're back on the case. So tell all, Lestrade." That had taken some time. And the more he said about it, filling in the details of the hostages, and the deductions that led to solving the puzzles, the more incredulous the CTC officer became.

"Just _who_ the hell is this Sherlock Holmes? We're going to need to question him- anyone attracting this level of animosity- a personal bombing campaign?! Well, he has got to be a person of interest to our branch."

Lestrade warned him. "Before you even think of doing something like that, check first with SO6; his brother would be mightily offended. Questioning a Holmes is not a good idea, not if you anticipate having a long career."

There was silence on the other end. "_That_ Holmes?"

"Yeah."

"Oh. Bloody hell, Lestrade, I wouldn't want to be you at the moment."

"Thanks for that little vote of confidence, Troughton. I really needed that." After that, it was as if the guy couldn't get off the phone fast enough.

Greg lay awake for the half of the night that was left by the time he got home. He tried to sleep. Cuddled up to Louise and started to drift, only to wake himself up with the thought of Sherlock being caught up in something that was simply too big for him to get his head around. _And if it's too big for him to figure out, then how the hell am I going to stop him from getting hurt? _

Actually, there was something that kept rattling around in his mind like a marble in a tin can, so he got up and went into the kitchen to fix himself a camomile tea. No caffeine- he'd had so much over the past five days that his hands seemed to have a permanent tremor. As he fished out the teabag and dropped it into the sink, it came to him.

_Yeah- just where the hell is Mycroft in all this?! _ Usually when Sherlock got into trouble, his brother was all over him. But, apart from an appearance at the flat – well, he assumed it was Mycroft whose car was there when he returned Sherlock to Baker Street the morning after the bombing- the elder Holmes had been conspicuous by his absence. He wondered if he should call. _Not at three am, you dolt._ He didn't want to be responsible for giving the guy a heart attack, or scaring him witless that something had happened to Sherlock. Not yet, anyway.

That was the other thing that was bugging Greg, really worrying him. Sherlock had made enemies over the years; he was too good at his job not to do so. But, if someone wanted him dead, they'd had their chance. The first bomb could have been a 'proper' sized semtex package- that and the gas would have levelled 221. So, outright murder didn't seem to be on the agenda. Whoever the mystery bomber was, he was playing with Sherlock, pulling strings and watching the man jump to solve the puzzles. It was personal, it was malicious and the person doing it didn't give a damn if innocent people were killed in the process. That was a very dangerous enemy- one who didn't want to just kill Sherlock, no- these puzzles meant that something else was involved. And he didn't like where it was taking Sherlock. _Is he being set up for some horrible crime? _He just couldn't shake the ...oddness, the peculiar way Sherlock was just _enjoying_ this. It scared him.

He rubbed his eyes, and wished he didn't feel like shit. The brain was just too tired and too wired at one and the same time.

Eight hours later, when Sherlock did his usual greeting, "It's me", Greg was ready to hear the worst. "OK, what's happened? Has he been on the phone to you? What kind of hostage is it now?"

"Just a photo- a view of a river. The Thames, South Bank- somewhere between Southwark Bridge and Waterloo. I suggest you take a look. When you find something, text." Then the call ended.

Lestrade sighed, but came out into the team room. Sally Donovan gave him a filthy look as he headed for her desk. "So, I see Mr Infallible cost twelve lives last night. Time to bring him in, sir?"

"Shut it, Donovan. We have work to do; get a team, bring some Forensics along- we're doing some beach combing."

oOo

It was freezing cold on the exposed shore below the Thames southern embankment. A biting wind was coming in straight up the river from somewhere east of the Urals. When Sherlock and John showed up, the police had been on the scene for nearly an hour, and Greg's hands were like two blocks of ice. He was standing next to a body, which had been lifted onto a plastic sheet.

"D'you reckon this is connected, then? The bomber?"

Sherlock had eyes only for the body, but he answered the DI. "_Must_ be. Odd, though…." He held up the pink phone with the photo. "…he hasn't been in touch."

"But we must assume that some poor bugger's primed to explode, yeah?"

This got a terse "Yes" from the brunet, who stepped back and took a long look.

"Any ideas?" Greg knew better than to badger Sherlock with lots of questions when he was in full observation mode, but he couldn't help but think of another hostage. _One thing is for sure, this time I won't let him solve this one without me._

Sherlock answered Greg's question. "Seven…so far."

Greg couldn't keep his irritation at bay- "_Seven_?!"

Then Sherlock was in motion. He swooped down over the body, squatting to get close to the man's face with his magnifier. He then worked down the body, pulling up a trouser leg, then taking off one of the socks and examining the soles of his feet. When he stood up and closed the magnifier, he looked up to find John and then nodded his head towards the body, in a mute order to examine it. John waited for permission from Lestrade, who just waved him forward.

The doctor's assessment came rapidly thereafter. "He's been dead about twenty four hours- maybe a little longer." He looked up at Lestrade. "Did he drown?"

The Di shook his head. "Apparently not, not enough Thames in his lungs. Asphyxiated."

Sherlock was standing off a bit, as if not even listening to John. He was busy looking at something on his phone, making frequent finger swipes, as if trying to find data.

John agreed with the initial Forensic assessment of cause of death. Then both he and Lestrade shot a glance at Sherlock, who had just muttered, "fingertips."

John looked confused but continued, "In his late thirties, I'd say. Not in the best condition."

Sherlock concurred. "He's been in the river a long while. The water's destroyed most of the data."

He then gave a private, almost sly smile. "But, I'll tell you one thing: that lost Vermeer paintings a fake."

Lestrade tried, he really did. But the comment was such a _non sequitur_ that he just felt his exasperated "what?!" slip out.

Sherlock didn't even bat an eyelid. "We need to identify the corpse, find out about his friends and associates…."

The DI felt the accumulated weight of too many sleepless nights catch up with him and just stutter his brain into neutral. "Wait-wait-wait-wait. What painting? What are you- what are you on about?"

Sherlock looked at him in surprise. "It's all over the place. Haven't you seen the posters? Dutch Old Master, supposed to have been destroyed centuries ago. Now it's turned up; worth thirty million pounds."

Greg felt like smacking the guy. "OK, so what has _that_ got to do with the stiff?"

"Everything." Sherlock thought something was amusing, which just wound up Greg even more. Purposefully obtuse, the brunet continued, "Have you heard of the Golem?"

Once again, Lestrade was reduced to parroting the word back at Sherlock. "Golem?"

John came to Greg's rescue. "It's a horror story, isn't it? What are you saying?" At least Greg didn't feel like he was the only one who was having difficulty following Sherlock's strange train of thought.

"Jewish folk story, a gigantic man made of clay. It's also the name of an assassin- real name Oskar Dzundza- one of the deadliest assassins in the world. That is his trademark style. " He pointed down at the body, as if that explained everything.

Greg couldn't believe his ears. "So this is a _hit_?" He was now thoroughly confused, annoyed and close to losing it with Sherlock.

Sherlock's eyes glittered in the early morning light. "Definitely. The Golem squeezes the life out of his victims with his bare hands."

"But what does this have to do with the painting? I don't see…"

Now it was Sherlock's turn to sound exasperated. "You see- you just don't observe."

Before Greg could explode, John stepped in. "All right, all right, girls, calm down. Sherlock? Do you want to take us through it?" Not for the first time, Greg heaved a sigh of relief. John Watson's willingness to tame the younger man's anti-social traits had led to fewer such confrontations recently. _Maybe this lapse into old habits is a sign of how rattled Sherlock really is by all this._ That thought took the heat out of Lestrade's irritation.

Sherlock gathered a breath and set off. "What do we know about this corpse? The killer's not left us with much- just the shirt and the trousers. They're pretty formal- maybe he was going out for the night? But the trousers are heavy-duty, polyester, nasty, same as the shirt- cheap. They're both too big for him, so some kind of standard issue uniform- dressed for work then. What kind of work? There's a hook on his belt for a walkie-talkie.

"Tube Driver?" Lestrade was clutching at straws, but he was trying to follow along. Sherlock just shot him a look that said "idiot" without having to vocalise it. Then John piped up, "Security guard?"

Sherlock nodded, "More likely. That's be borne out by his backside."

Now Greg couldn't resist. "Backside?!"

"Flabby. You'd think that he'd led a sedentary life, yet the soles of his feet and the nascent varicose veins in his legs show otherwise. So, a lot of walking _and_ a lot of sitting around. Security Guard's looking good. And the watch helps, too. The alarm shows he did regular night shifts."

"Why regular? Maybe he just set his alarm like that the night before he died." Lestrade tried to slow down the deductive flow, but it was like stopping the Thames' tide coming in.

"No-no-no, the buttons are stiff, hardly touched. He set his alarm like that a long time ago. His routine never varied. But there's something else. The killer must have been interrupted, otherwise he would have stripped the corpse completely. There was some kind of badge or insignia on the shirt front that he tore off. Suggesting the dead man worked somewhere recognisable, some kind of institution." He fished something out of his pocket. "Found this in his pocket, sodden by the river but still recognisably…"

John did the honours, "tickets?"

Sherlock corrected him- "ticket _stubs_." Then he was off again. "He worked in a museum or gallery. Did a quick check- the Hickman Gallery has reported one of its attendants missing. Alex Woodbridge. Tonight they unveil the re-discovered masterpiece. Now why would anyone want to pay the Golem to suffocate a perfectly ordinary gallery attendant? Inference- the dead man knew something about it, something that would stop the owner getting paid thirty million pounds. The picture's a fake."

John looked as shell-shocked as Greg felt. He just said in an admiring tone, "Fantastic."

Sherlcok shrugged, his face still set in a frown. "Meretricious." John's crossword definitions came in handy; he sensed that Sherlock was mocking him a bit by admitting that it was a vulgar display of talent, not particularly useful.

"And a Happy New Year!" Lestrade looked startled by the whole discussion, as he had no idea what the hell the two men were saying to one another. John looked back at the body. "Poor sod," as if to remind both the official detective and the consulting one to stop thinking of the body lying on the mud as just a means to an end.

That spurred Lestrade into action. "I'd better get my feelers out for this Golem character."

Sherlock's reply came almost instantaneously, "pointless, you'll never find him. But I know a man who can."

"Who?" The DI hoped this would be a cue to get Mycroft involved and playing a useful role. But his hopes were dashed when Sherlock's answer came back, "me." The brunet grinned and walked away. John sighed, and his eyes showed just how weary he was becoming of this, but he followed in the man's wake. Greg watched them disappear. _Great, not content with pissing off a bomber, he now decides to go after an assassin. _If he wasn't so cold, he'd be livid with anger.

oOo

For the next nine hours, Greg's text messages became increasingly frantic. His initial "stay in touch" approach didn't even rate a reply. Nor did his messages to John get answered, apart from one about mid-afternoon.

**2.45pm Just hang in there; we're on it, putting pieces together. JW**

**2.47pm Is there a hostage involved? GL**

**2.49pm Not to my knowledge-nor his, if that's any help JW**

Then at a quarter past five, a call came into the Yard, reporting the death of Professor Cairns, a University of London academic, killed at the London Planetarium. Shots had been fired, according to one of the tourist attraction staff. Greg sent Sally Donovan to investigate, in part, to get her out of the office. Her glowering face was getting on his nerves.

Twenty minutes later, she called in. "Guv, you aren't going to believe this. The Professor was killed by being asphyxiated. The ME was the same who did your body on the Thames foreshore. He says it's the same MO."

Greg just groaned.

"And, you'll never guess." Her sarcasm was dripping. "Two men answering the description of a tall, dark-haired bloke in a long coat, and a short blond guy in a black jacket, were on site when shots were fired. They vanished, chasing a really tall guy that the attendant didn't see very well."

The DI closed his eyes, and said nothing.

"Guv, really. You don't have a choice. Shall I put an alert out to bring them in?"

"Wait, Donovan. Just wait." He hoped to God that Sherlock knew what he was doing.

By seven o'clock, Lestrade was beginning to lose hope. He contacted the head of the Hickman Gallery and told her that he was going to put a plain-clothes officer into the gala reception starting at 7.30. VIPS and some of London's best known art critics had been invited to the private opening; he was worried that there might be some trouble, given the murder of one of the gallery attendants.

She was reluctant at first, but agreed in the end. "I want everything to go well tonight, so please, no heavy-handed presence. So long as your man is discrete, it's OK." Her heavily accented East European voice betrayed little. But, he couldn't blame her if she was anxious. Discovering a new Vermeer was a once in a century find; she was bound to have opening night nerves.

Lestrade kept in touch with the officer- but his man said that apart from some bitchiness from the art critics whose envy could not be contained, the 90 minute reception had passed without a hitch. The DI sent the 20th text of the day to Sherlock.

9.07pm Reception over, no issues. Any news? GL

There was no reply. At that stage, exhaustion took over and he just went to bed.

oOo

**8.09am Meet us at the gallery. SH**

When Lestrade arrived and was escorted in, the Hickstead Gallery owner, Miss Wenceslas, was pacing, her high heeled shoes tapping a rhythm of anger on the stone floor. Sherlock was examining the painting; John was watching Sherlock.

As soon as she saw Lestrade, she exploded. "You're the policeman I spoke to yesterday, yes?"

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, mam." He tried to give her a reassuring smile.

"This …man has broken into this gallery twice- once yesterday and now this morning. I told him I would have you arrest him, but he says he's working for you." Her thick Eastern European accent did not hide her distain.

Sherlock was ignoring her, John and Lestrade in equal measure. His eyes kept moving from his phone to the small canvas hung in splendid isolation on the white wall. Greg sighed.

"It's a fake. It _has_ to be." To Greg's ears, used to Sherlock, that sounded _immensely_ frustrated.

Miss Wenceslas was outraged. "That painting has been subjected to every test known to science."

The tall brunet did not turn around, just snarled, "It's a very _good_ fake, then." The he spun wound and fixed her with one of his intense glares.

"You _know_ about this, don't you? This is _you_, isn't it?"

She looked back at Lestrade, her exasperation clear. "Inspector, my time is being wasted. Would you mind showing you and your friends out?"

A phone rang. Sherlock snatched the pink mobile out of his pocket, almost in triumph. He switched it onto speaker, and blurted out "The painting is a fake."

There was no reply, just the sound of a breathy pant. Sherlock continued, "It's a fake. That's why Woodbridge and Cairns were killed." There was no response from the phone.

Sherlock's impatience could not be contained any longer. "Oh, come on. Proving it's just the detail. The painting is a fake. I've solved it. I've figured it out. It's a fake! That's the answer. That's why they were killed."

The only sound from the phone was the sound of someone breathing.

The brunet took a breath in, and closed his eyes for a moment as if to calm himself. "Okay, I'll prove it. Give me time. Will you give me time?"

There was a brief gap, then Greg heard the voice of a very young boy over the phone's speaker, "Ten..."

Sherlock whirled back to the painting and his eyes start flicking over it almost frantic.

Greg said in a shocked tone, "It's a kid. Oh, God…it's a _kid_!"

John looked confused, and asked "What did he say?"

Sherlock answered without turning, "ten".

The boy's voice was heard over the speaker. "Nine..."

"It's a countdown. He's giving me time."

Greg's eyes widened in horror. "Jesus!"

Sherlock ignored him, "The painting is a fake, but how can I prove it? How? _How?"_

"Eight…"

The brunet turned and skewered the gallery owner. "This kid will die. _TELL_ me why the painting is a fake. _Tell me!"_

"Seven…"

Then Sherlock held his hand up to stop the woman from saying anything. "No, shut up. Don't say anything. It only works if I figure it out." He turned back to the painting.

John could no longer stand the tension; he walked away a few paces and turned away from the sight of Sherlock frantically scanning the canvass. The brunet had to stoop to get on the same level as the painting, and he was muttering, "must be possible. Must be staring me in the face."

"Six…" The boy's voice sounded scared, as if he knew that something serious was happening. Greg could hardly stand the thought that this _game_ of Sherlock and the bomber was going to result in the death of such a young innocent. That said, he knew that shouting at Sherlock now or remonstrating with him would only interfere with his deductions during the last few seconds that the boy had. Instead, Lestrade looked at John as if willing him to do something, to work his magic with Sherlock. But the doctor could only push; they all heard him as he turned back and said "come _on_!"

Sherlock was reduced to putting his rising frustration into questions. "Woodbridge knew, but _how?"_

"Five…"

Lestrade realised in a panic what they all heard. "It's speeding up!"

John growled an almost despairing, "_Sherlock!_"

The detective was bent over looking at the canvass up close. Really looking at it. Lestrade saw that the man had actually stopped breathing. _No distractions; he's blocking everything out._

Then the breathy, "_OH!" _

"Four…"

He stood up, and turned away with from the painting with a smile on his face. "In the planetarium! You heard it, too. Oh, that is _brilliant_! That is _gorgeous_!" He walked away from the canvass and the others. As he passed John, he thrust the pink phone into the doctor's hand, and pulled his own phone out of his pocket, punching keys with almost giddy enthusiasm.

"Three…"

John's calm finally broke, and he demanded of Sherlock, "What's brilliant? _What_ is?"

The brunet turned and walked back to the others, his face split with a grin, laughing in delight. "This is beautiful. I _love_ this!"

Lestrade added his outrage to John's, "_SHERLOCK!_"

"Two…"

The man grabbed the phone from John's hand and yelled, "The Van Buren Supernova!"

There was a short pause. Greg felt like the moment dragged out impossibly, waiting for that awful word- one- that would spell the end of an innocent life. He forgot how to breath.

"Please, is somebody there?" The little boy's voice sounded plaintive.

Sherlock gave out a contented sigh, just as the others were willing to breathe again.

"Somebody help me!"

Sherlock turned and handed the phone to Lestrade. "There you go. Go find out where he is and pick him up."

He gave a long look to John, as if daring him to argue. Then he turned back to the canvass. "The Van Buren supernova, so-called,…" he held his phone up so that Miss Wenceslas could see it. "…exploding star, only appeared in the night sky in eighteen fifty-eight." He gave her a triumphant stare, and then walked away.

John looked closer at the canvass. "So how could it have been painted in the sixteen forties?" He grinned over his shoulder at the gallery owner, before returning to look at the painting again. Then his own phone chirruped- incoming text.

"Oh" John looked at it, sighed and "Oh, Sherlock…" He switched off the phone and followed his flatmate out of the room.

The Detective Inspector had two phones to his ears- the pink one into which he was saying "It's all right, son, we'll have someone there in just a couple of minutes. You're OK. Just stay where you are." As soon as he finished that statement, he spoke into the other phone, "Got that, Donovan? Right, send the bomb squad there and a team from the Arts and Antiques command to collect this fake and the gallery owner, Miss Wenceslas."

The woman was still staring at the painting in a state of shock.

oOo

Lestrade was beginning to feel like one of those circus performers who came on after the elephants had been in the main ring; he seemed to be forever clearing up the mess left behind by Sherlock's puzzles. _At least this time, there are no bodies._ And he gave thanks that the man's nerve had not broken at the last minute; he'd never seen his observational powers put under such strain before. In most of their previous cases, the work was done over a dead body. Even when there were risks of another crime, or an abduction that could end badly, they rarely faced such a deadline. To be told to come up with a solution in ten seconds- well, the bomber was a fiend, there was no other word for it.

By the time the team put the gallery owner into an interrogation room, Sally had called in to say that the boy had been rescued, and was safely re-united with his parents. He'd been walking home from a shop when a taxi stopped beside him and he'd been kidnapped. The men wore masks, "like on the TV" and the boy had been terribly excited when they said it was all a game, and that he'd win a big prize, if he did what they said. He had thought it was all being filmed for some video game- and that none of it was real. _Lucky him, it's just we adults who will have nightmares as a result of this latest 'game'. _

Greg had insisted that Sherlock come to the Yard for the interview. He wasn't sure he knew enough about the painting to make sense of what Sherlock said, and the A&A Officer who came to take her into custody just whispered, "I hope you know what you're doing, sir- this is the most important art discovery of the century, and we're going to look pretty stupid in the press, if we get it wrong."

So, he found himself conducting the interview. _Damn Mycroft Holmes for insisting that all contact with Sherlock be handled through me._ Greg would have liked nothing better to be at home now, trying to get his brain to slow down. The adrenaline still kicking around in his blood was now giving him a filthy headache, and he felt wired, tense and vaguely nauseous, the last because he vaguely remembered that he hadn't had anything to eat all day.

"You know, it's interesting. Bohemian stationery, an assassin named after a Prague legend, and _you_, Miss Wenceslas. This whole case has a distinctly Czech feeling about it. Is that where this leads?" In contrast to how Greg was feeling, the consulting detective seemed as cool as a cucumber, totally relaxed.

When the woman didn't answer, Sherlock continued, "What are we looking at, Inspector?"

Greg decided to throw everything and the kitchen sink at her. "Well, um, criminal conspiracy, fraud, accessory after the fact at the very least. The murder of the old woman, all the people in the flats…"

That made the gallery owner look up in panic. "I didn't know anything about _that_! All those things, _Please_ believe me!"

Greg could see Sherlock out of the corner of his eye at the same time as the DI watched the suspect; a tiny nod from the consulting detective suggested that the woman was telling the truth about that part, at least.

She carried on: "I just wanted my share- the thirty million." She looked at Sherlock, and then looked down, as if the sight of the man was just too painful to bear. "I found a little man in Argentina. Genius. I mean, really: brushwork immaculate, could fool anyone."

Sherlock sniffed in derision, clearly not content to be classed as 'anyone'.

She gave him a filthy look; "Well, _nearly_ everyone….I didn't know how to go about convincing the world the picture was genuine. It was just an idea- a spark which he blew into a flame."

This made Sherlock sharply demand, "_Who_?"

She shook her head. "I don't know."

Greg just laughed.

"It's true! I mean, it took a long time, but eventually I was put in touch with people…_his_ people."

This made Sherlock sit up and concentrate.

"Well, there never was any real contact. Just messages…whispers."

Sherlock leaned over, closer to her, with an intensity designed to intimidate. She looked at Lestrade with what he realised was fear, then drew a breath and nodded, turning her head slowly toward Sherlock.

"Moriarty."

The name meant nothing to Lestrade. But, as he watched Sherlock sink back into his chair, gaze into the distance and lift his hands into a prayer position in front of his mouth, Greg realised that the name did mean something to the brunet. Even worse, what chilled Lestrade's heart was the grin that he saw emerging on Sherlock's face.


	56. Chapter 56

**Chapter Fifty Six Bomber (Plus One, of a five + 1)**

* * *

When Lestrade finished for the night, he was well and truly knackered. Exhausted, shattered, brain dead- not to put too fine a point on it, he could think of nothing he wanted more than bed. He'd spent the whole day clearing up the mess of Sherlock's latest bomber puzzle. After contacting Interpol to issue the European Arrest Warrant for Oskar Dzundza, otherwise known as the Golem, he'd then spent two hours with the Art & Antiques team who went on to formally charge Miss Wenceslas, the owner of the Hickman Gallery for fraud and criminal conspiracy involving a fake Vermeer painting. Based on her subsequent confession, he'd also assisted in the issuance of an Interpol warrant for a little known artist living in Buenos Aries, Argentina, for art forgery.

Then there was the follow up work for the murders of Anthony Woodbridge and Professor Cairns; that took a couple of hours. Neither case could move forward until Dzundza was apprehended, but their relatives needed to know what progress had been made. Sergeant Donovan returned from rescuing the hostage, and debriefed him on that. Fortunately, Timothy Gordon was fine. The boy's ordeal had not felt like it to him. On the contrary, he'd thought it terribly exciting to be involved in the filming of a new video game, and he'd hoped he played his part correctly. The men had said he needed to count down slowly and then sound frightened.

He'd had enough of this London taxi being used to kidnap hostages; it had been implicated now in at least two incidents. He had no idea whether the old blind woman, Dorothy Elton, had been abducted that way. She certainly wasn't registered as living in that block of flats; she'd been plucked from her bungalow on the other side of Rotherham. And given her death, he couldn't interview her to see if the cab and the three masked men were involved. But, he briefed a team to do a thorough exercise with the Taxi and Private Hire office. When it had been called the London Carriage Office, it had actually been part of the Met Police, but like a lot of things, had transferred to London Transport. He wanted a full list of every black cab on the road that was NOT a licensed vehicle. If the same license plate showed up on any Rotherham traffic footage, he wanted to know about it. Despite best efforts the company that manufactured the unique taxis did sell some privately, so it was possible that this was not a licensed cab, but if so, they could try to track down ownership.

Then there was the afternoon press conference called by the Art & Antiques Unit, fronted by the Assistant Commissioner for SC&O, Anthony Hemming. He wanted Lestrade there as "the DI who tracked down the murdered security guard that led to the discovery of the most important art crime of the past decade." He'd raided his desk for a fresh shirt; Greg kept a supply in the bottom drawer for those times when he wouldn't get home. Fortunately, he didn't have much of a speaking role; others were content to take the limelight. By agreement with the Assistant Commissioner, he'd argued against making Sherlock Holmes' role public. "We don't want to give this bomber the oxygen of publicity, so let's keep him out of it, please."

Throughout the day, Lestrade kept waiting for a phone call from Sherlock to say that another one had started. Failing that, he expected a call from Mycroft. _Damn it- he'd been expecting that call for days. Where is the man when you actually need him?_

Maybe to get a step ahead, he started a team digging on the name "Moriarty". It was a fairly common Irish name, but he wanted every possible criminal connection identified. _You take on Sherlock, you take on me, Mr Moriarty, whoever you are._

By five o'clock, he'd had enough. More than enough. He texted Sherlock

**5.02pm Any new activity? If not, I'm going home to bed. I'm knackered. GL**

**5. 05pm Nothng. Go. SH**

_Well, that's succinct._ He was too tired to care.

When Louise got home after work at 6.45pm, she found the curtains drawn, the lights off and a sleeping Greg in his bed. After contemplating the scene in the bedroom, she changed her clothes and called a friend: "Fancy going for a meal and a film?"

By the time she got back, and crawled into bed herself, it was just past midnight. Greg was deep asleep, and at first she found his snores annoying. Then it seemed as if she'd just managed to drift off when the sound of a phone ringing woke her up. Flipping on the light, she saw that it was Greg's phone, on his bedside table, but, of course, as ever, he was sleeping straight through it. She shoved his shoulder with a little more animosity than usual, and he suddenly thrashed awake.

"What, what's …are you a'right?"

"It's your bloody phone; you answer it- and take it out into the living room, will you?"

He staggered up, threw on his dressing gown and picked up the phone. By the time he was out of the bedroom door, she'd switched off the light.

"Yeah? What's …happened"

Sherlock's voice sounded a little higher pitched, and a bit less fluent than usual. Or was that Greg's sleep-addled brain? He couldn't be sure.

"The fifth and final pip" He must have heard Greg's intake of breath. " Relax... solved it. Freed the hostage myself. John…. it was John, by the way."

_Oh shit!_ Whatever Greg had been expecting, this was not it. That meant the bomber was not only familiar with Sherlock, but knew that, of all the people to wrap in semtex, John was the one that would distress the consulting detective the most.

"Why the hell didn't you call me when all this started? What was the puzzle?"

"Irrelevant. And classified. The only reason why I'm calling is that you need to organise a clean-up. We're just outside the swimming pool in Camberwell, you know- the Victorian one that's about to be restored. Moriarty and the snipers are long gone. On the side of the pool is the bomber's jacket, and tell the bomb squad to treat the anorak carefully; I don't think that Moriarty would detonate it just for effect at this stage, but it would be wise to take proper precautions."

"Sherlock, slow down. Is John all right? Are _you_ alright? And just who the hell is this Moriarty and why is he doing this to you?"

There was no reply. He could just hear the man's slightly ragged breathing on the other end of the phone, and the usual street noises of a Saturday night in London. Then the sound of someone walking up to Sherlock, then the call was ended.

_Shit, shit, shit…._Greg's brain had gone from sleep-fuddled zero to full adrenaline pumped panic over the course of the call. _Classified?_ What the hell did that mean?

Enough. He didn't care if it was nearly one in the morning, Mycroft Holmes needed to be informed. He scrolled through his phone's contact list, found the one he was looking for and hit the call button.

To his credit, Mycroft Holmes was obviously a light sleeper. He picked up on the second ring.

"Detective Inspector, what's happened?" It was a question mildly put, but Greg could read the tinge of stress lying under the polite tone.

"Your brother…" and here Greg ground to a halt. How to sum up the last week's mayhem? "…has been playing games with a bomber. And you seem to be sitting on the side-lines watching it all play out. Care to tell me why?"

"Not until you explain the timing of _this _call, Detective Inspector, and why you are wanting to know _now_."

"I'll assume then that you haven't heard about your brother ending up at a pool in South London, with John strapped into a jacket of semtex?"

There was the briefest moment of silence, then "No, can't say that I have." It was calmly stated. Greg realised that Mycroft would know that if Sherlock had been injured, the call would have started differently. Not for the first time in his history of knowing the Holmes brothers, Greg was glad that his contact was more with Sherlock. As limited as the man was at expressing emotion, Sherlock at least had reasons to be reticent. Mycroft just kept his so tightly leashed that it was positively scary at times.

Greg decided to plough on. "Well, he just called me in to do the clean-up routine. Says the game is over; I get the feeling this was a score draw. And my guess is that when John ended up as the hostage, Sherlock wasn't quite so happy to play along." Greg realised that the six hours of sleep he'd managed since getting home was probably all he was going to get tonight. "Frankly, I'm sick of coming along behind him with a broom, so I really, really do hope that this is over. I can't keep my eye on him tonight. I suggest that you do that right now, because in my book, whatever happened at the pool sounds like it wiped the grin off of Sherlock's face."

"Thank you for that advice. Leave it with me."

"Keep me informed, will you? Sherlock's told me bugger all about what's _really_ going on here. And quite frankly, I'm getting tired of being taken for granted. Got that, Mycroft?"

"Loud and clear, Lestrade." The call ended, leaving Greg to glower at his phone. He went back into the bedroom and dug out some clothes in the dark.

A long suffering sigh erupted from the bed. "I suppose you're off again?"

"Yeah, sorry to wake you."

There was no reply. As Lestrade prepared for another night's work in service to the Holmes brothers, he wondered where it was all going to end.

* * *

**Author's note**: And that brings this story arc up to the time of my other fic series which starts with _**Collateral Damage**_. I appear to have collected a large number of followers and reviewers to this story line (for which I am humbly grateful). I am happy to be guided by you, so do tell me requests for other stories from Lestrade's point of view. I have at least one more "Sam" plot in mind, but any particular scenarios or plot bunnies that you'd like me to tackle, do tell.


	57. Chapter 57

**Author's note: **_oooh- I should ask people for prompts more often! Lots of ideas; one that I tip my hat to for this is EditorFrog_

* * *

**Chapter Fifty Seven A Couple of Days Off (Day One)**

The first time he laid eyes on John Watson, Lestrade was not sure what to make of the small former army doctor. He'd just been told by text that Sherlock finally had a new flatmate, and that meant he could at last get back into casework. Greg was so focussed on the serial suicides that the flatmate could have been a trained chimpanzee for all he cared. He needed Sherlock back at work, and the flatmate was a means to that end. The man's cane had thrown him the first time he saw him sitting in the armchair in the new flat. But he didn't have time for introductions then, so he'd just run back down the stairs. He got a better look when the doctor accompanied Sherlock to Lauriston Gardens and the crime scene, but Sherlock had not bothered (again) to introduce him. Really, did he think so little of Lestrade that a terse "He's with me" would be enough for the Di to assume he was trustworthy?

Actually, when he'd had time to think about it, yeah, it was enough. Because, in the years since a skinny sixteen year old turned up on one of his crime scenes, no one had ever accompanied him. Apart from the occasional drug dealer, homeless person or criminal suspect, Sherlock had never even been seen by Lestrade as willingly in the company of another human being. Of course, there'd been incidents and accidents, which were the times when his brother came into view. But no one could take their relationship as a 'normal' one. Sherlock had no "friends"- well, apart from Greg. But even he knew that the enigma called Sherlock would probably not recognise him as being one, no matter how often he showed up on Greg's doorstep, on the DI's crime scene, or in his thoughts when he was bored.

So, when a rather ordinary person showed up, not only with Sherlock, but with him because Sherlock actually _wanted_ his company- well, that was a first.

And Greg's suspicions were tweaked when the doctor showed up outside the police tape at the college, after Sherlock reported the death of the London cab driver. When Sherlock stopped in mid-flow his deduction about the mystery marksman who shot the serial killer, those suspicions tightened up a couple of notches. When the DI talked to Mycroft Holmes and realised that the marksman had not been one of his agents, nor an SO6 officer, then the circumstantial evidence was pretty conclusive. But Mycroft had vetted the doctor and passed him as acceptable, and he was the one who declared that no further investigation of the death of Jeff Hope was needed. So, Lestrade sat on his concerns. But he couldn't help but wonder if it was a good idea to have Sherlock share a flat with a man with an unlicensed firearm, who clearly knew how to use it.

Mind you, at least he'd used it to keep Sherlock alive this time. _So far, so good._ That said, Greg would be keeping an eye on him in the future.

oOo

But not today. In fact, not for several days, which comprised the sum total of leave that Greg had taken in the past year. At the insistence of Louise, he was travelling up to Manchester for a three day break to attend the baptism of her sister's first child. Louise was Godmother, "and you are coming if I have to drag you out of the office in handcuffs myself."

It hadn't come to that, fortunately. He'd left Sally in charge on the couple of on-going investigations, and strict instructions that anything new was to be handed off to one of the other Murder Investigation Teams. At Louise's insistence, as they caught the 9.07 train from Euston Station to Manchester, he took his phone out of his pocket and ceremoniously turned it off. She then held out her hand. She probably knew him well enough to realise that he would turn it on again at some point to check for messages and missed calls. So, he slipped it into her hand and watched it disappear into her handbag.

"Just once, Greg, I'd like to have a family occasion when the events happening in our lives are more important than some criminal's activity. And, I will remind you just once that the topic of conversation today at the service and the reception afterwards should not be thought of as an occasion to tell people about what you actually do for a living. Up North, people aren't quite so friendly when they learn you are a policeman. So, just consider this an undercover operation- you get to pretend to be my husband for a whole three days. My family can't forget the fact that you investigate murders, but promise me that for the next three days you'll just try to be normal with them." He sighed. She had a point, and he couldn't really argue. The job did become all-encompassing at times.

oOo

"What do you mean he isn't available?" Sherlock's incredulous tone irked Sally. "I texted him, then phoned him, but there's no reply."

"That's right, Freak, he's taken three days off. I'm in charge and I'm not taking anything on new, and certainly not if it involves you."

"But there's a dead body lying on the bed in Flat 8 Kestral Buildings on Moreland Street. That's in Hoxteth, so definitely in your jurisdiction.

"And you're standing over it? Wow- it's happened even earlier than I thought. I always said you've end up on the wrong side of the law." Her sarcasm was unbridled. No Lestrade to tell her to play nicely with the man. She was enjoying this.

"Look Sergeant, I don't care who you send, but police should be called for a suspicious death, so I'm calling, this is a crime scene that needs processing, and the Met has to respond to me as they would to any civilian ringing it in."

"Try ringing the crime reporting line, like normal mortals. As the person is already dead, the number you should call is 101, not 999." And she hung up. The grin on her face stayed there for the rest of the morning. She hoped he had a fun time queuing up with the drunks, the little old ladies worrying about burglars and people reporting their cats missing.

oOo

The church was draughty, and Greg had some sympathy for his wife's new godson, who was bawling his head off. _Just wait until the vicar puts cold water on your head, mate. You'll just _love_ that. _The vicar was now intoning the words of the service, "In baptism this child Tom begins his journey in faith. You speak for him today. Will you care for him, and help him to take his place within the life and worship of Christ's Church?"

Louise looked lovely in her cream coloured suit, standing next to her sister, her brother-in-law and the chap who had been chosen as godfather. He'd been introduced very quickly, and promptly forgot the bloke's name. All four of them by the font answered the vicar with the time-honoured reply, "with the help of God, we will." Tom had stopped crying for a moment, and was staring at the feathers on Louise's hat, which were moving in the breeze. (_It's not a hat, Greg; it's called a Fascinator._) He smirked and thought that it was certainly fascinating her godson.

Once the church service was over, the party moved to Louise's parents' house. He'd always got on with her father. Brian was a big bluff Mancunian with a droll sense of humour- he'd needed it with a wife and four daughters. Sometimes Greg thought rather uncharitably that his father-in-law was as welcoming of Greg as he was, simply because he had one less daughter to worry about. Over the seven years they'd been married, Louise's father had been supportive of his work-"it's a tough life, Louise, but the police do important work, so don't fret him so."

On the other hand, Greg's relationship with his mother-in-law had gone from slightly shaky to downright hostile over the same period. She couldn't resist it this time, either, as she came up carrying her newly baptised grandson Tom and saying to Greg, "Why don't you hold him for a while, Gregory? You might realise that children don't bite." When he obliged, and started to smile at the little toddler's sleepy face, she followed up with the inevitable comment.

"So, when can I expect a grandchild from Louise?"

He snapped back at her, "Talk to your daughter about that, as it's not my choice."

He'd regretted it almost as soon as it slipped out. Without a word, she collected Tom from him and stalked off. In less than an hour, the message must have been communicated to his wife, because when she came up to him in the queue for the lunch buffet, she said under her breath to him. "Thanks for that, Greg- just what I need for the next three days is mum going on, and on, and on about me having children." She left a smile on her face for any onlooker to see, but he could hear the anger in her words.

It was an issue that had been discussed often and just as often been the basis of an argument. He liked the idea of children, she didn't. "It's alright for you, Greg- you'd be out all day and half the night on police work; I'd be stuck at home in the mindless company of a bawling infant. Just so …not my scene. I have a lifestyle I love, work I enjoy, friends and colleagues I want to spend time with- why on earth would I give all that up to become a housewife, mother and drudge?"

"Just don't tell your mother that, or I expect she might take offense." Greg just wanted Louise to be happy, but he didn't really seem able to do much that was right. She stalked off, eating her lunch in the company of an old school friend. The rest of the afternoon passed surprisingly quickly, as an endless supply of the proud parents' friends, family and guests milled about and kept him occupied by the kind of odd conversations that one has at such functions- with people he didn't know and was likely never to see again. As ever at such occasions, the first topic of conversation was trying to figure out each other's relationship to the parents, before moving onto other social niceties. Inevitably, he did get around to telling people what he did for a living. _What does she want me to do? Lie about it? Make something up, like I'm an accountant or something?_

When the proud parents and child departed, it wasn't long before other guests started disappearing, too. Greg and Louise were staying at her parents' house, a sprawling modern five bedroom house in Altrincham, about nine miles south of Manchester. Her dad was in the construction business and had made a fortune during the house building boom of the 1980s and '90s. It felt strange to be sleeping in a room that had once been her childhood bedroom, but when they arrived, he was relieved to see that the room was no longer the pink teenager's boudoir that he remembered from when they first married. "Mum redecorated all of our rooms last year, Greg- she wants them to be ready for the hordes of grandchildren." Each of her three sisters had left home, married and had children, but Louise was the rebel of the family. She'd gone to London and made a career for herself in PR.

"I'm taking a shower. Can't face mum right now."

While she was doing that, he put his feet up. Within seconds he was looking at her handbag, sitting on the floor. _Sod it. I want to know if anything is happening_.

So, he fished into it for his phone and switched it on.

**One missed call. 0939am**

**You have four new text messages:**

**09.40am Know anything dodgy about a banker called Van Coon? SH**

**10.18am Found a dead banker, interested? SH**

**10.37am Donovan being usual prat, says you're away. How is that even possible? SH**

**12.48am Lestrade, just who the hell is DI Dimmock? He looks like a 12 year old! SH**

**01.15pm Dim by name, dim by nature. Come back, I need you. SH**

That last one raised a smile. He wondered if Sherlock was involving his flatmate in this investigation as he had with the serial suicides. Maybe he should ask. But, as he was thinking about what to reply, he heard the shower switch off, and the sound of Louise towelling herself dry. So, he turned the phone off and pushed it back into her bag. Still he couldn't resist the smile, thinking about what Sherlock would make of the newest DI to join the Homicide and Serious Crime Command.

And no sooner had that thought occurred to him than he wondered what the _hell_ Dimmock would make of someone like Sherlock. Most of the other Murder Investigation Teams had some inkling of him, Greg had been happy over the years to 'lend him out' to others when their cases were particularly difficult and perplexing. But he always prefaced such a loan with a lot of briefing. "Just so you don't take offense, he's like that with everyone. Don't let it bother you. He's worth it because he will see stuff that no one else can, and shortens the investigation as a result. Just be careful that he doesn't get into the case so much that he goes haring off after a suspect himself; he can get kinda carried away at times." And then there would be the warning about SO6 and the other agency that would be following the consulting detective's activities. "Usually, they keep their distance, but don't get too freaked if someone in a government car turns up." With all those caveats, there were some DIs who decided that Sherlock Holmes wasn't worth the trouble. _Poor fool them- he's made my team the best performing one in the whole damn Met._ But, Lestrade knew he was patience personified.

"What are you smiling at?" Louise was standing in front of him now, wrapped in a fluffy white bathrobe, towelling her hair off.

"You," he answered quickly, and reached up to pull her down onto the bed.


	58. Chapter 58

**Author's note: **_a second day for EditorFrog. _Ever wonder where Greg was during the Blind Banker case? here's your answer

* * *

**Chapter Fifty Eight A Couple of Days Off (Day Two)**

* * *

Louise was downstairs. After a family breakfast, her mother had insisted that she help with the dishes. Greg watched her roll her eyes and mutter "here it comes," but she gave a resigned laugh and joined her mother in the kitchen. Greg went upstairs and pulled his phone out of his wife's handbag. He needed to send contact Dimmock. He'd spent a good two hours lying awake last night thinking about the texts that Sherlock had sent him, while Louise slept like a baby beside him. Well, it was her bed after all, so she was used to it. Just a bit too soft for his taste.

**You have six missed calls. **

He checked the numbers- all six were from Sherlock. Naturally, no voice mail messages. He never did that. "If you can't be bothered to pick up, then I can't be bothered to talk to you." He could hear the sarcastic baritone as if Sherlock were in the bedroom with him.

**You have three new text messages.**

_**Yesterday:**_

**6.10pm Dimmer Switch still says suicide. He's more of an idiot than you are. SH**

_**Today:**_

**10.06am Brian Lukis, Freelance journalist, murdered last night while you were on holiday. Same MO. SH**

**10.07am Dimwit still being awkward, but at least ballistics can't lie. Come home. Families are boring when there is a serial killer loose. SH**

Greg took the phone into the loo, then hit the speed-dial for the office. Donovan answered.

"Hello, Guv. You're on _leave_. That means you _leave_ and don't need to phone in. Everything's under control."

"Sergeant Donovan, do us a favour and transfer me to DI Dimmock, please."

He could hear the sigh. "Do I really have to, sir? I mean just once can't the division manage to solve a case without the Freak interfering?"

He growled his reply- "Now, Donovan. I don't have time for this." Without a word she punched in Dimmock's extension number and slammed the phone down.

The phone wasn't picked up after five rings and switched to voice mail. "You have reached the phone of Detective Inspector Andrew Dimmock. Please leave your name and number after the tone and I will get back to you." Greg thought he sounded older than he looked in person. The beep went.

"Hi there- this is Greg Lestrade. Try not to hit him, please. I'm sure he's being an obnoxious pest, but Sherlock Holmes is actually right. Whatever he said to you, just delete the rude stuff and think of the content. You'll see he's right. Give him what he wants."

He switched the phone off and put it back in her bag.

When he went back down stairs, Louise's dad, Brian, was in the sitting room, reading the paper. He looked in, realised that Louise must be still in the kitchen with her mum, and made as if to join them.

"Wouldn't do that, if I were you." It was said from behind the newspaper, but there was enough caution in the tone to stop Greg in his tracks. He backed up and returned to the sitting room.

"Why not?"

"They're at each other's throats at the moment, and there will be tears shortly."

Greg looked towards the kitchen, slightly alarmed. "Whose?"

He heard a snort, as Brian put the paper down. "Either, or both. It's happened often enough. Just sit down and just wait it out, like me."

So he did, picking up the sports section and opening it. But he kept looking at the door into the kitchen as he could hear the two women's voices getting louder and louder.

Brian just sniffed and Greg looked over at him to see a smile that just couldn't be contained.

"What? You think this is _funny?" _

"Look, let me give you some advice, Greg. I've lived with four women in this house for over thirty years; you _don't_ want to interfere. Our Lou can hold her own against her mum. She's the only one who really can. Don't know why, but the others just seem to care too much."

He couldn't shed his own frown though. Greg and his sister got on well with their parents when they were alive. Their mum died …almost twenty years ago. _Odd, it doesn't feel that long ago._ And their dad had passed away a decade later.

Something metallic clattered in the kitchen, and he could hear Louise yelling, "You just don't understand it; get out of my life and go live you own, mum!"

Brian smirked. "This is tame, believe me. Usually they are bawling the house down by now. Must be because you're here. They take no notice of me. When Louise was still living at home, I got an allotment just to have somewhere to escape for some peace and quiet." He chuckled.

"I always thought that Louise took after her mum, but now I'm not so sure. Have they really been fighting like this all along?"

"Yup. Like two peas in a pod, they are. And that's the problem. Both have got ideas they don't mind foisting on others, and neither gives an inch. Why do you think Lou puts more than a hundred and fifty miles between her and her mum? At one point, before she met you, she wanted to emigrate to either America or Australia." He put the paper down.

"Don't get me wrong, son. I love 'em both to bits. Married the one, so I must have. After the other three little sweethearts were born, I thought I was never going to see her genes come through. Lou put that straight out of my head. She was giving her mum grief the moment she was born –and hasn't stopped since."

Greg tilted his head to look at the calm older man. "Does Margaret yell like that with you?"

"No, does Louise yell like that with you?"

Greg shook his head. "She's pretty wicked with sarcasm when I do something that irritates her, but she's never shouted."

"Margaret's like that, too, with me. Wicked tongue, but not _angry_ if you know what I mean. Just knows what she wants and heaven help the man that stands in her way. Lucky for me, her definition of what she wanted included three kids and a nice house, with a husband who wasn't underfoot all the time." He looked thoughtful for a moment. "Lou's got _modern_ ambitions, though- career, status, money -all the trappings." Then he looked at Greg thoughtfully. "Want to know something? I always hoped you'd be the one to tame her a bit. Make her think that there were other things worth caring about. You're a solid sort of bloke; I just hope she appreciates you enough."

Greg looked a little surprised at the compliment. He looked towards the kitchen door again, where things seemed to have gone quiet. "Yeah, so do I, because I do love her, you know."

There was another shout, again from Lou. "Right, mum, if that's the way you feel, then I'm out of here."

Brian just said quietly, "Yes, Greg, I know. Take care of her, will you? I'll look after mine, and maybe we can get them through dinner tonight without them killing each other."

She came back into the room and glared at the two men. "What are you looking at, Greg?" He could see her eyes were wet, but she had not cried. He just said mildly, "Fancy a drive, then? I'd like to see some of the countryside."

"Yeah, that suits me just fine. Can I borrow the car, dad?"

He didn't look up from the paper. "Keys are where they've always been, Lou."

She stomped off into the hall to pick up her coat, and Greg shot a conspiratorial smile at Brian.

OoO

He drove. She was in too much of a temper, and she knew it. "Thanks for getting me out of there. Just drive south east for a while, Follow the signs to Wilmslow then Macclesfield. Let me just calm down." After a half hour, she told him to turn off to Bollington, and then into the Peak District National Park. "Let's have lunch at the Cat and Fiddle."

Greg had learned to keep quiet when Louise was in a mood. She would calm down. If he tried to talk to her, she'd just transfer her anger onto him. So, they both kept silent and let the countryside entertain them. Greg loved the Peak District. It had been a surprise to him. "It's not all dark satanic mills, Greg." Yes, well – he was a Londoner born and bred, so to him anything north of Watford would be "flat cap and whippet" territory. Manchester had not disappointed him- it fit the stereotype. But, when she had taken him home to meet her parents, after he had proposed, she took him up here to realise that it wasn't all industrial squalor. The Cat and Fiddle Inn had become their favourite bolt hole over the years.

As he bought a pint and ordered their food at the bar, he caught sight of her reflection in the mirror behind the bar. She was looking out of the window. He was 47, she ten years younger. And as his hair turned silver, hers was defiantly blonde. He still thought it a miracle that he could have managed to marry someone so attractive. On the drive up into the Peak District, he'd been wondering about how he could sneak a look at his phone again, but looking at her, he decided to leave it, and just enjoy the afternoon.

oOo

But after they got back from their lunch, and the walk to burn a few of the calories off, and then the drive home. Greg started thinking again about the phone. No sooner had they walked in, Brian told Louise that her mum was over at her neighbour's, and that she hoped she'd come over "and visit." Louise smiled. She'd spent hours over at Mrs Thompson's house, when sulking away from her mother. The dear woman was now in her 80's and pretty much house-bound with arthritis. She looked at Greg. "Would you mind?"

"Not at all. Sounds like a good idea."

He was _very _glad that she left her handbag, and she was out of the door for less than three minutes before he was fishing in it for his phone. When he pulled it out, he stuck his head into the living room, and just said. "Don't tell her, please? I need to call the office, but I promise I won't be long."

Brian just smiled and returned to watching the rugby match. "You've got at least twenty minutes before they can escape the old lady's clutches. She looked after Lou for so many years when her mother and she had a fight; best peacemaker I know."

Greg headed for the dining room and turned the phone on.

**You have one new message.**

He didn't recognise the extension, but knew it was the Met, so assumed it was Dimmock. He hit the play key.

"Got your message. With respect, Lestrade, this guy's a bit of a loony. I mean, I concede he was right about the murder, and there are some tentative similarities in the deaths of the journalist and the banker. So I did let him look at the flat for five minutes- then he went tearing out carrying a library book. Then a few minutes ago, the other guy- the short one shows up and asks for the journalist's diary. I gave it to him, but …give me a call, will you? We need to talk." There was a sigh and then the message ended.

He smiled. _Yeah, well I can understand how strange it must seem._ He rang the number.

"Dimmock."

"Lestrade here, got your message. Look, I'm sorry that I didn't get a chance to talk to you before he got involved. What's the story so far?"

Dimmock recounted the details of the death of the banker, Eddie Van Coon, and then the murder of the journalist, Brian Lukis. "What I don't get is how he thinks the two are connected. I mean apart from the fact that both happened inside locked rooms. He thinks that someone climbed in. But…"

"YOU don't think it's possible."

"Well, come on- the first one was six floors up and the second one was four. And that one had no ledges, no footholds. I mean the guy would have to be bloody spider-man to pull it off. But, Holmes doesn't even listen when I question his theories; he's an arrogant sod."

"What's he doing now?"

"Well, the short one- the doctor, can't remember his name. Actually, I'm not sure he ever introduced himself, and Holmes, ah, well…he's a little short on the social front."

Greg snorted. "Yeah, you could say that.., just let Sherlock do his thing. The other guy is his flatmate, a doctor named John Watson. He's…okay; Sherlock's involves him in a case occasionally. Actually, he's easier to get on with, so if you can, try to get him to tell you what Holmes is getting up to."

"Is it safe to trust them with evidence?" Dimmock sounded a little uncertain. "I handed over the journalist's diary to Watson, but, will it come back contaminated or compromised? It could be important in a trial and I don't feel comfortable breaking the rules this way."

"Yeah, well, just don't let Forensics in on it, okay? And keep Holmes away from the CS Examiner Anderson- they _really_ don't get on."

"Uh, could you hang on a minute?" There was a muffled conversation. "Your Sergeant just showed up and wants a word." He could hear the phone being handed over.

"Guv, you won't believe this. We've just been told that Watson got arrested earlier this afternoon for damaging public property. He was caught by some CPOs doing spray paint graffiti. He was processed at Charing Cross Police Station who say he's likely to get an ASBO for it."

Greg swallowed. "Sally, hand the phone back to Dimmock, please." She sniffed, but he would hear her handing it back.

"Yeah?" Now Dimmock sounded annoyed.

"Look, I know it sounds weird, but I'm going to tell you to just ignore anything my Sergeant says on the subject of Sherlock Holmes. I have no idea why Watson would do that, but no doubt, Sherlock will be somewhere behind it. His methods are highly unorthodox, but they work. So, I'll make this simple. Trust him, do what he says and TRY to get him to keep you in the picture. That means going to him- that's at 221b Baker Street. He won't bother keeping you in the loop unless you get in his face. He'll just demand stuff and leave you in the dark until he's solved it otherwise. You've got to keep an eye on him."

There was silence on the other end, and Greg could just imagine his scepticism. He gave it one last shot. "There is a reason my team has the best clear up rate in the Division, and that reason is Sherlock Holmes. I know he's …not what you would expect. But, just be patient; it will pay off in the end."

Greg heard the front door. "I've got to go; good luck, Dimmock." He ended the call, and slipped the phone into his pocket. He'd have to find an opportunity to get it back in her handbag before she noticed it was missing, but at least he'd done his duty.


	59. Chapter 59

**Chapter 59**

**Three Days Off (Day Three)**

* * *

Day Three was bliss. Greg and Louise slept in, and then by the time they got down for breakfast, Margaret had disappeared to do some shopping. Brian was sitting at the kitchen table, reading his newspaper.

After an exchange of "Good mornings," Greg asked his father-in-law "Do you ever go with her shopping?"

Brian just smirked. "I could say something to irritate Lou, but I won't."

Louise was rustling in the refrigerator and bread bin for the makings of toast. "Don't go there, Dad."

The smirk broadened. "She knows that the northern male's answer to that question is that grocery shopping is women's work, but I always say in my defence that there is no point in me going, because I have no say in any purchases. Margaret makes all the food choices."

Louise pulled her head out of the cupboard where she'd found the jam jars, and said in a waspish tone, "Well, if you men ever did the cooking, then you'd get a chance to make decisions about the shopping."

"Me, cook? Your mother would divorce me rather than eat something I'd prepared. She'd swear I was trying to poison her."

"Well, Greg _can_ cook; he just never gets back from the office early enough to do it."

He looked a bit guiltily at the plate of perfect toast that she delivered to his place at the table. "Well, I will be sure to tell the criminals of London to oblige me by keeping more social hours when it comes to homicides and serious crimes. I'd really enjoy being able to cook you a meal."

She sat down with her own plate. "You promised- no talking about work. For once, I want a whole day of your undivided attention. I do not want to hear the words 'metropolitan', 'police' or 'force' until we are back inside the M25. No 'murder', no 'homicide', no 'criminal'- okay? And on pain of death, no 'Sherlock Holmes'. I swear that if I ever divorce you, I'll cite him as the other guilty party. Greg, I've still got your phone- so if you do stray, it's going straight into the bin, smashed into pieces. And Dad, you are hereby forbidden to raise the topic again. Got that?"

Struck dumb by the ferocity of her lecture, the two men in her life just nodded silently, in unison.

oOo

And Greg relaxed and enjoyed the day, just spending it with Louise. The time reminded him why he married Louise. Both of their working lives in London were stressful, and demanding. By the time they got home after a full day's work, they were tired and cranky, but had the rest of daily life to contend with- preparing meals, washing, shopping, cleaning the flat, doing the errands, even the paperwork needed to keep the household going- bills, bank statements, tax returns- just stuff. When they tried to shoe-horn in some form of social life as well as time together, it was not surprising that they rarely had the energy to really put much into their relationship. They co-existed, shared the same space, but didn't really get the best out of being together.

The three day break was coming to an end, so they decided to prolong it as much as possible. In fact, at Louise's request, they decided to delay leaving Manchester until after the evening rush hour was over. Taking one of the last trains of the night would mean they wouldn't get into the flat until after midnight, but that suited Greg just fine.

It wasn't until they got a taxi at Euston Station that he started thinking about what he was going to find when he finally got his phone back. When they were inside the door of the flat in Seven Sisters, she put her handbag down and headed for the loo. While she was in there, he fished it out and switched in on.

_You have three new messages_.

He hit _**voicemail**_ and then _**play**_

**9.12pm **

"Dimmock here. You said I should trust him. I've done everything you asked, Lestrade, but your man has come up with zero. First of all yesterday he makes me spend valuable police resources packing up two dead men's books- I'm talking crate loads of them, and then deliver them to Baker Street. Oh- and did I mention that he came up yesterday with another dead body, this one a woman in a museum? Then he spins this tale about the bodies being hits by a Chinese tong because the bodies have a similar tattoo on their foot. He says they stole something from a smuggling ring, but he tells me sweet FA about what was actually stolen. His latest form of torture? He and his sidekick phone in tonight about a Chinese circus being a front for the smuggling ring, so I gave the order for a raid. Did we get a result? Oh, no- that would be too easy. I have _no__thing_ to show for it – other than a massive bill for overtime. It's just so weird that the sidekick took his girlfriend on a date to this so-called circus, but there's no circus when we get there."

Greg could hear the strain in the young man's voice. "Please, Lestrade come back and sort this maniac out. Your Sergeant has got the right idea about Holmes." Then the message ended.

**11.42pm**

"Dimmock again. This guy is definitely certifiable. I've now got another dead body- one Chinese tong heavy, in a railway arch at Black Tramway- that's in Southwark by the way. And a cock-and-bull story about a jade hair pin worth nine million pounds- but no sign of it turning up. The really weird part? The other Chinese heavy who was still alive confirms the story. He's singing right now – he'll turn evidence in exchange for the chance to do time for kidnapping and assault in the UK- anything but return to China. We haven't got the property back, and the leader of the gang escaped, but at least we seem to be moving somewhere. I've got to say, though, I'm confused as hell. Can you PLEASE come back in tomorrow morning and sort this out? It makes my brain hurt working with him."

**12.04am**

"It's me. We need to talk. I think I've broken the case. I'll come in at 11 and present the evidence- but to you, just you. I don't think Dimmock can take any more."

Greg smirked at the tinge of pleading under the baritone tones. Sounded like he wasn't the only one who was going to enjoy getting back to normal tomorrow.

He thought about it. The saying is that absence makes the heart grow fonder. With Louise, the reverse was true- spending time with her made him appreciate her more than he did when all the other demands on his life were there. In Sherlock's case, however, the saying worked. The three day holiday had made him realise how much he'd learned to trust the man. But even he needed the occasional break from the relentless pace of working with the world's only consulting detective. He was glad to know that for once, someone _else_ had managed to keep an eye on Sherlock.


	60. Chapter 60

**Author's Note:** I know it's been a while, but if you've been reading _Periodic Tales_, you will know why**. ** But I will be returning to this story line occasionally over the next two months, including at least one new Sam story. Until then, this is something that must have happened at some point in the six months after the SiB Christmas Party at Baker Street.

* * *

**Chapter Sixty - Painful Truths**

* * *

Greg took a deep breath and unlocked the door of his flat. A casual glance around the room said it all. Not to someone who didn't know them well- a stranger looking into the living room would see a well decorated, tidy and modern place. Touches of colour, a flash of good taste. Neither of them made a lot of money, but together he and Louise had managed over the years to make themselves a nice home.

Trouble was, Louise left him yesterday. "For good. Over, done, our marriage is out with the rubbish" is the way she had put it. "Hey, Greg, don't look so upset. Another murder will come along to keep you busy. You won't even notice I'm gone. You just keep doing your bit to save the world, and I will go do what I like doing." She smiled sadly. "I've been doing that for the past three years anyway, behind your back. I'm not prepared to do it that way anymore. I've met someone and I think it's serious, so I want to give it a go. A proper try this time."

He'd been replaying her words on continuous loop for the past day. Couldn't shake them out of his head, even though each and every one hurt. He finally understood the word 'self-flagellation'. It was the last statement that hurt the worst, the bit about not trying properly. For the past three years, he thought he had been trying. He'd forgiven her the infidelity. She'd sworn that the guy she slept with wasn't important; it was just a fling. He was younger and made her feel sexy, but she knew it was wrong, so she'd told him to bugger off and then told Greg. She didn't want him to think her dishonest. She'd just been stupid. So, he forgave her and tried harder. But, clearly, it wasn't enough.

Then she asked for a couple of months' separation. She needed "some space to figure out what's going on in my head". He tried to talk her out of it, but in the end agreed to it, if she would go with him to a marriage counsellor. He thought the sessions were working. He loved Louise. She was his oasis- the part of his life that kept him sane because it didn't involve bodies, criminals, crime scenes, and investigations. She was beautiful, bright, sparky and a northern lass. Straight talking and he had judged himself the luckiest man alive when she had accepted his proposal.

So, he did agree to a trial separation. That lasted three months, and then she came back. "Like a bad penny" she said. "I guess you won't get rid of me that easily" She'd laughed when he said he never wanted to get rid of her, ever. That Christmas, they went to bed for three days and made love like newlyweds. Less than a month later, he learned to his horror that Sherlock had been right- she was still sleeping with the PE teacher- and had been all along while she was also with him.

"I wasn't sure, Greg, so I came home to spend time with you to see if Robert was really the one. And being apart from him made me realise it. We got together again. I know that it isn't fair, and I'm a bloody cow. Go ahead and shout at me. I deserve it; I've treated you badly, and I'm sorry. That's why I'm not prepared to lie anymore. Think of it as a car accident- no one wants it to happen, but when it does, you just recover the pieces and get on with things. You keep the flat; I will move my things out tomorrow while you are out at work; Robert's coming to give me a hand with the heavy stuff."

For the past three nights, he'd been awake all night, rehearsing what went wrong, what he'd done or not done that had led to this. Now, as he sat at the table in the kitchen, and everywhere he looked around the flat, he was reminded of her, of them, and of his failure to keep her. He'd never known pain like this.

oOo

"Sherlock, your phone is going manic. Why don't you just answer it?"

John was typing on his laptop. Sherlock was doing something with an experiment in the kitchen.

"You're closer." That much was true. The phone was on the coffee table, and John was probably physically closer to it than Sherlock.

"But, it's YOUR phone."

"Then it can wait until I am finished." John glanced over at the kitchen Sherlock was using a pipette to put something into a petri dish one drop at a time.

"And just how long as that likely to be?"

"It gets longer, each time you interrupt."

John sighed. He didn't know how the man could concentrate. For John, a ringing phone was like an itch that had to be scratched. "Could be a case, you know."

"Yes, that thought had occurred to me, John; quite logical, given that a high proportion of my calls are about cases. If you'd like to be certain about it, why not just look?"

The doctor didn't move; he went back to his typing, then he stopped to look at the sentence he'd just written which was utter rubbish. He sighed and stabbed repeatedly at the backspace key. Then he got up and picked up Sherlock's phone…

…which immediately started vibrating again, as if it knew he was there. He opened the text screen. "You have nine texts from Lestrade. Want me to read them to you?"

Now it was Sherlock's turn to sigh. "What part of me not wanting to be interrupted needs to be repeated, John? If you give me two more minutes I will be done with this and can do it myself. Fix yourself a cup of tea, drink it and by then I can come out to play."

As John headed for the kitchen, Sherlock added, "and fix me one while you are at it; you might also want to have a piece of toast, as this case is quite likely to be interesting."

While John was in the kitchen, he kept smiling. Trust Sherlock to come up with a conversion table, nine Lestrade texts equals a seven on the Sherlockian scale of interesting cases.

oOo

Now looking at a dead body dragged out of Hampstead Heath Ponds, the brunet detective was still. Sometimes, Sherlock wasn't all swirling motion and rapid movement around a body. He didn't swoop like some raptor, to examine more closely a hand, a torn fingernail, a piece of jewellery. He was just looking at her naked body, with his hands together, as if he was praying.

John watched him from where he was standing. He could hear Sally Donovan and Don Anderson talking in the background, but tuned out their words. Lestrade was on the other side of the body, his arms crossed, watching Sherlock, too. He looked tired, as if he'd not have much sleep for several nights.

"Anything? Anything at all?" He sounded impatient.

There was no reply, and no movement from Sherlock.

Lestrade's patience snapped. "For God's sake, Sherlock. I've held up the Forensic team for more than a half hour because you couldn't get off your arse to answer your phone. You can at least do the decent thing and not keep us hanging about while you…I don't know…contemplate your navel or whatever the hell it is you are doing now."

John tilted his head at that explosion. It wasn't like Lestrade to be so impatient. He knew the way Sherlock worked, and was willing to go along with it in every case that the doctor had seen to date. That reaction was something more like what Sally or Anderson would say. John glanced over to where the Sergeant and the CS Examiner were deep in conversation. Ever since Sherlock had 'outed' their relationship on the very first night John worked with him, the doctor could now see their flirtation in their body language alone. He didn't need the tell-tale deodorant clues. Actually, the pair didn't bother to hide it anymore, becoming more blatant as time went on.

Sherlock looked around to see what John was observing. When he realised who it was, he frowned. and turned back to Lestrade. "Tell me _exactly_ how the police constable found her in the water."

Lestrade's face screwed up in disappointment. "Ask him yourself." He turned and shouted "Jeffries, get over here." A burly copper in uniform jogged over from the police tape, which was now holding back a collection of civilians on the path, who were ogling the crime scene. "Tell him what you told me, and be quick about it."

"Right, sir. She was in the water, about 18 inches under the surface. As you can see, her wrists and ankles were tied down to concrete blocks in the water, and then she also had a wide strap across her waist, also tied to two blocks."

"Facing up or down, Constable?"

"Up, sir." The PC looked a little uncomfortable. "It was her breasts that caught the jogger's attention. I mean, they're very white, sir, and when I got here I could see them just under the water. The guy thought at first it was a dead swan."

Sherlock turned to John. "Can you estimate the length of time she's been in the water, John?"

The doctor knew that Sherlock would know the answer to this question even better than he would; after all, Sherlock had been working for months on a protocol to determine point of entry for bodies thrown into the Thames- so he'd seen dozens of drowned bodies at Barts over the summer. So, if he was asking John's opinion now, it was to make some sort of point to Lestrade and the constable.

"You know as well as I do, Sherlock. Given the low temperature last night, the water would have been close to freezing. She was put there sometime in the night. That's why rigor is still present."

"Put there? You said she drowned."

The doctor grimaced. "Yes, she did, but she was either drugged or barely conscious when put into the water. Even tied down to the blocks, she would have struggled if she was able to- and there are almost no ligature marks on her wrists and ankles, so clearly, she didn't struggle much."

Lestrade was pacing, and fidgeting, too. John watched him with some concern. _Too much caffeine?_ Something was off, not quite right with the DI.

"I don't suppose you've been able to deduce who she is, Sherlock? Or anything _useful_ to get us started?"

"Just wait, Lestrade. A few more minutes won't make any difference to her." The consulting detective now walked over to the water. "Constable, go get me one of those blocks." Jeffries was already wet from when he had pulled the body out, so he did not hesitate again to wade into the pond and reach down into the freezing water. He emerged with a concrete builder's block and laid it down at the side of the body.

Lestrade just looked at it and groaned. "A fat lot of good that will do us; it looks like the sort you'd find at almost every construction site in London."

"As usual, Lestrade, you're wrong. I don't know her name, but I know where we will be able to find it. Come over here." Lestrade walked over to where Sherlock was standing. The brunet took his shoulders and spun him around, then pointed over the DI's shoulder. "Look across the water. What do you see?"

"A pond? Ducks? Stop playing games, Sherlock and just spit it out." Lestrade was clearly in a foul mood.

John came over, too, to see what Sherlock was pointing at. Across the pond, on the far shore, there was a row of four storey terraced houses. Their back gardens came down to the water.

Sherlock now said quietly in Lestrade's ear, "We will find answers in the third house along- possibly in the top flat or on the third floor."

oOo

John was finding it hard to stomach all the blood. The top floor flat in Number Three, Heath Villas, was awash in it. Anderson was complaining. "Yet another crime scene where I'm going to have to put up with civilians crawling all over the place before I can get to do what I'm paid to do. Sometimes, no, make it just _once_, I'd like to be able to process a scene properly before the Freak shows up. It's gotten to the point where I routinely screen out his DNA from all my work, without even thinking about it, even when he isn't there because he thinks it's too boring. Utterly ridiculous."

Lestrade just snarled at him. "Shut it, Anderson. I am not in the mood for you being a prima donna."

The man's body lying on the living room carpet had been dead for about nine hours in the doctor's estimation. "Death by exsanguination. There must be thirty or more stab wounds- all in the groin area. His genitals have been…well, you can see the results." The knife was on the floor by the body. Unlike the body in the pond, this one was clothed. Stapled to his bloodied shirt was a note- "Now you will never lead her into temptation again." It was unsigned.

Sherlock was standing at the large dormer window, looking out over the pond. "The location was key. She'd be seen from here."

Lestrade was trying to piece it together. "So, you think that the murderer killed her, put her in the water and then arrived here, to kill Mr Szamuely?" He turned back to the flat doorway. "Donovan!" His voice carried down the stairwell to where the Sergeant was questioning the neighbours from the floor below. When she appeared in the living room, he asked "What do they say?"

"Mr Szamuely lived here on his own; wife died twelve years ago. According to Mrs Samuels from the flat below, he's got a lady friend- been having an affair for about ten months."

Now Sherlock started his deductions. "The woman involved was married. Adultery- am I right, Sergeant?"

The black woman looked a little uncomfortable. "Well, the neighbour didn't know her, did she?" It came out a little defensively.

"No, but _you_ recognised the signs, didn't you? The neighbour told you about the woman's coming and going at odd times of the day or night, but never staying over. The sound of a phone going up here would be heard downstairs, then she'd arrive a set time later, or maybe a rapid departure by My Szamuely after the call here to make a quick rendezvous. All the hallmarks of an adulterous affair."

He walked over to the desk and rifled through some papers. Then he flipped open the laptop, and opened the e mails. "Her name is Diana Crossland."

"How do you know that?" Lestrade came over to look over Sherlock's shoulder, peering at the screen.

"Airline tickets to Rio- here's a confirmation e mail. Advanced passenger information makes it hard to lie; the names have to match what's on the passport. Seems that Mrs Crossland was about to do a runner with her lover. If you track down her address, I think you will find your murderer. However, I expect he will be dead when you get there. A man motivated by this level of revenge will not have wanted to live without the wife he loved so much that he would kill for her."

He looked over at the dead body. "The clue is in the fact that he weighted her down, but drugged her first so she wouldn't struggle. That's mercy. He didn't blame her for their failed relationship, but blamed Szamuely. That's a man who loved his wife, pushed over the edge of reason. He won't want to live without her."

Sally didn't buy it. "Where do you get off, Freak? I mean, figuring out their relationship –okay, I get the evidence that there may be some connection between the body in the pond and this one. But, trying to explain motivations- from a man who is a self-confessed sociopath, what on earth makes you think that _you_ could understand married love?"

It wasn't Sherlock that snapped first. John was stunned when Lestrade just lit into Sally. "Given your history, Donovan, I don't think that makes you qualified to pass judgement on someone else. Maybe if Mr Szamuely had thought twice about the pain he was inflicting on others, he might have kept it in his trousers where it belonged."

Sally looked outraged. "Guv, that was just…out of order." She stomped off and back down the stairs. Down beside the body where he was carefully bagging the corpse's hands, Anderson had observed the DI's exchange with Sally. He stood up and took a breath. "You have no right…"

Lestrade turned to the CS Examiner. "Not another word, Anderson. Just keep that mouth shut. You of all people should know what effect an adulterer has on the innocent party in the marriage. How's the wife these days?"

Eyes blazing, Anderson took a step toward the DI. But before he could do anything more, Sherlock was in motion. He stepped between the two men, grabbed Anderson by the blue forensic suit and literally dragged him out of the room, bundling him out the door and slamming it shut.

"John, would you mind giving us a few minutes?" It was quietly asked. John hesitated. Greg was clearly tired, stressed and uncharacteristically volatile. Leaving him with Sherlock could be a recipe for disaster, and John wasn't sure he wanted to trust Greg's mood with someone as ham-fisted as Sherlock could be. But, he looked into those grey green eyes and saw something that made him trust, so he nodded and left the room.

Sherlock now crossed to look at Greg closely, really scrutinising him to the point where the older man started to look uncomfortable.

"So, she's finally left you."

Greg turned away. "Just leave off, will you, Sherlock? You've had your fun. You've been poking at my marriage for years, positively enjoying the spectacle of me making a fool of myself. So, don't rub salt in the wound by crowing how right you were." The DI just didn't have time for any gloating by the brunet.

"That's not what I was doing before, and that's not what I'm doing now."

"You could have fooled me. Like at Christmas when me and Louise were really trying, you couldn't resist that little barb about the PE teacher, could you? In front of everyone, too. Just the perfect little gift from you to me." He looked away and took a step to put more distance between him and his tormentor.

"That's not what I was doing…or, at least, not what I was trying to do."

Greg just sighed. "You know what? You're done here. You've done your party trick now and sorted this crime out, so just collect the doctor on your way out of here. Leave this mess to me."

"No."

"Sherlock, get out of here. I'm tired and fed up and I don't need the hassle. Leave."

"No."

The second refusal made Greg turn around and glower at the brunet. "Why the hell not?"

"Because you haven't said a word to anyone about your wife and it's eating you up." Sherlock walked up to Greg, invading his personal space in a pointed way. "You haven't slept properly for the past three nights, so she told you on Sunday. She's moved out and you're rattling around in the flat surrounded by memories of her. You haven't called your sister to tell her, because to do so would somehow make it final."

"Shut up, Sherlock. You just don't know when to stop, do you? Just leave me alone!" He put his two hands up on the younger man's shoulders and shoved him away.

Sherlock staggered back a couple of steps, but then said quietly "No."

Greg grabbed him, balling his left fist into Sherlock's shirt and shoved him back against the wall of the living room. His right fist pulled back, to let fly. Sherlock did not resist, he could see what was going to happen, but did nothing to stop the blow. The force of it when it came was enough to smack the back of his head against the wall, and to split his lip open. When Greg released his hold, the brunet half collapsed, half slid into a heap on the floor.

A look of horror crossed Lestrade's face, as he stepped back, looking down at his right fist. "Oh, shit; now look what you've made me do. God, Sherlock, I'm sorry."

"That's pointless, being sorry. You've been wanting to do that to someone, anyone, for the past three days, Lestrade. You're smart enough not to go anywhere near your wife or her new man, because you've seen too many scenes like this one. But not being able to do something has been driving you crazy. Better to hit me than one of your colleagues, wouldn't you say? If you decked Anderson or, heaven forbid, Sally Donovan, it would've cost you your career."

Greg just stared at the man sitting on the floor, with blood streaming down from his cut lip. "You're saying you did that on purpose? Poked me until I hit you, just so…what, I didn't clobber someone else?" His incredulity showed.

Sherlock got unsteadily to his feet, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and used it to stem the flow. He looked back on the wall and frowned. "You'll have to tell Anderson about that." He pointed to a fine line of blood spatter. "He fusses enough about me contaminating _his_ crime scene. " His voice was utterly matter-of-fact, as if he was totally unconcerned about Greg punching him.

"Why would you do that?" Lestrade couldn't understand the motivation. Obviously, Sherlock had deduced his distress and somehow thought that getting him to punch him would help. As the adrenaline raced through the DI's bloodstream, he realised that throwing the punch had actually felt _good. _The continuous replay of Louise's last words about making a proper try stopped.

Sherlock wiped the blood from his lip, slurring slightly through the wad of white cotton he kept pressed to his face. "My brother would say I deserved it- being hit. I think he wanted to do the same thing to me when I was nine years old and I told my mother about my father's infidelities over a Sunday roast lunch. I tell people what they don't want to see for themselves. I don't do it to be popular, just honest. It's up to you to make of the information what you want. For my mother, it was enough to banish my father to the London townhouse for a month- which was stupid in hindsight because it let him get on with the affair without interruption. In your case, I've kept my eye on you because your marriage means so much to you. I was trying to let you know the truth so that when this day finally came, you'd know you'd done everything you could to keep her with you. You did the best you could. Some marriages just end, Lestrade, because people change. It doesn't make them right or wrong, just normal people, like everyone else."

Greg looked at the younger man, understanding for the first time what Sherlock had done. A moment of silence passed between the two men.

"Right then, I'd better get Anderson back up here and let him do his job. Thanks for taking the case Sherlock." And that was the last time the two men ever spoke about Lestrade's marriage.


	61. Chapter 61

**Chapter Sixty One Painful Truths (Part Two)**

* * *

"Hold still."

Sherlock flinched. "Thath hurths."

"Yes, I imagine it does. Maybe you shouldn't have pissed him off so much. The pain just might make you remember that even Lestrade's patience has its limits."

"Wasthn't like thath."

John was trying to clean off the caked blood from Sherlock's lip, but his patient was not being patient. In fact, he was squirming worse than most kids who John patched up in the GP surgery. He had packed the gap between Sherlock's top lip and his teeth with some gauze to try to stop the bleeding. As he debrided the gash in his lower lip, he thought about the seven year old Sikh boy who last week had sat like a rock while he stitched the nasty cut he had received in his mouth when coming off his skateboard at great speed. He'd finished that session by giving the boy a lollipop for bravery and his parents a talking to about the virtue of mouth guards. That made him smirk; a mouth guard might have stopped Sherlock from saying whatever it was that got Lestrade so pissed off he punched him.

"Whath tho funny?"

John tried not to giggle. Sherlock's fat lip and John's own hand trying to keep the skin taut was making his speech into something extremely childish.

Unfortunately, Sherlock could read John like a book, and he pulled back, his eyes stormy with anger. "Itth not funny. Itth _hurths_."

"Sherlock, if you don't stop trying to talk, then I swear I will turn my phone on and record your conversation, and then send it to Mycroft."

"Thath too cwool."

The doctor reached into his pocket, pulled the phone out and found the recorder app, turning it on. "Want to do a sound test for me?"

That shut up the brunet. In blissful silence, John surveyed the damage. The DI's fist had clearly connected at speed with Sherlock's mouth, catching his lower lip against his teeth and ripping it open. The upper lip was swollen as well, and the whole side of his mouth was now turning a nasty blue. The trouble with skin as fair as Sherlock's is that it showed every bit of damage in its full technicolour glory. And the cupid bow symmetry was definitely out of shape, blown up and swollen like a clown's on the left side.

It made him think of the time that he'd punched Sherlock. And that, unfortunately, recalled to mind Irene Adler's comment about how someone must have loved Sherlock, because if she'd had to do it, she would have avoided his nose and teeth, too. By The Woman's definition then, Lestrade definitely did not love Sherlock.

"OK, Sherlock, open wide and let the doctor see inside."

That got his a glare. John pursed his own lips. "I need to see if there's any damage to your teeth, idiot."

Sherlock tried, but his lips were so swollen that it was hard to see, so John gingerly lifted the top lip up, and pulled the gauze wadding free. Underneath, the gum was bright red, but when John touched the teeth, at least he couldn't detect anything had been knocked loose. The tip of his tongue seemed to have caught a bit of the impact,too. Not bloody, but bruised enough to be affecting his speech- probably been right up against his teeth when the blow landed.

"Hmmm. You need to see a dentist. When was the last time you had x-rays?"

Sherlock glowered, and shook his head.

"I'm not just talking about the possible dental damage caused by one irate detective inspector. Have you actually had your teeth cleaned in the past year? Your taste for black coffee and recently-given-up smoking habits mean your teeth need to be cleaned."

Sherlock pulled back completely from John's touch and crossed his arms defensively. If looks could kill, John knew he would be in need of a resus unit.

"Fixth ith."

"I can only suture the cut, Sherlock; I don't do dental work."

He now reached for the syringe of local anaesthetic, tapping the needle. Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes while John injected. The doctor could feel the tightness in the lean body as the brunet tensed when the needle went in.

"When you can talk properly again, you and I are going to have to chat about what is socially acceptable to say to a detective inspector."

That got him the second death-ray glare. John decided he was rather enjoying this.

oOo

Several hours later, Sherlock was now lying on the sofa staring up at the ceiling. John had dug the icepack out of the freezer, and it was now affixed to the side of the brunet's face. Every so often, John came by to lift if off and keep an eye on how things were developing.

"The bruising is starting to come out now around your eye. I've always thought Greg Lestrade would pack a mean punch if you finally stepped over the boundaries. You must have really pissed him off."

Sherlock huffed. The swelling of his top lip and tongue had gone down to the point where he didn't sound like a lisping child anymore, but talking was still obviously painful.

John did feel a pang of guilt. At the time, he had wondered whether it was wise to leave Sherlock with the DI, given that Greg was so obviously on edge. But, he never anticipated that Sherlock would provoke him to the point of physical violence. John was aware that the two men had been working together for years before he'd appeared on the scene, but he'd always thought that the DI had a soft spot for Sherlock. He worried that Sherlock had crossed a line, and that it would be hard to repair the damage in their relationship.

He knew from first-hand experience that his flatmate and friend had the capacity to well and truly get up someone's nose, but he'd always walked away to get some air before his temper got the better of him. And in the time that John had known him, Sherlock seemed to know exactly how close to the edge he could go with the DI.

"You know, I still can't decide which I am more surprised about- Greg losing it enough to actually hit you, or the look on Anderson's face, when you came down the stairs with blood streaming down your face. I wonder if he gave Lestrade a round of applause when he went back up to process the scene."

John reached over to lift the icepack off the side of Sherlock's face, to look at the skin underneath. "Yeah, definitely going to have a real shiner, too. I hope we don't get any cases that require you going to Scotland Yard for at least a week."

The younger man did not respond, just lay there on the sofa with his eyes closed.

"What the hell did you say to him Sherlock?"

Sherlock said quietly. "It's none of your business, John."

The doctor stood up, frustrated. No matter how many times John had asked him what was going on with Lestrade, Sherlock had not been willing to say. "If he holds this against you and keeps you off cases as some kind of punishment, you will go bonkers. And you'll make my life hell. I think I might have a word with him over a pint, try to smooth things over a bit.

"Do not interfere, John; just leave him alone. Promise me you won't raise the issue with him."

When John didn't answer, Sherlock repeated it. "I mean it, John. Just let it go, it's OK."

John was halfway back to the kitchen when he digested that last comment. _It's as if Sherlock's __protecting__ Lestrade. _He was still trying to figure out what that meant when he got up the next morning.


	62. Chapter 62

**Chapter Sixty Two Painful Truths (part three)**

* * *

While John hoped that Sherlock would be spared having to appear in public for a few days to let the bruises and swelling to go down, the fates conspired otherwise. No sooner had the doctor come downstairs to fix his breakfast when his phone went off. He'd left it on the table, under a pile of newspaper cuttings covering yesterday's Hampshire Heath murders- he'd started drafting the blog post. By the time he'd fished the phone out, he found a missed call and then a text came through

**8.23am Double murder. At least an eight. 62 Kensington Square Gardens GL**

_Sounds like business as usual, all is forgiven. _ Just as he was thinking that through, he heard Sherlock come down the hall. He was 'dressed', if you could call it that, in a sheet, holding his phone and reading what was probably the exact same text. John almost winced at the sight of his face. The bruising was now out in all its glory- a spectrum of black, blue and purple, plus the red swollen lips. He hoped it wasn't as painful as it looked.

"I could always give your excuses, Sherlock."

The brunet looked up from his phone. "Excuses about what?"

The doctor gestured in the vague direction of his flatmate's face. "That!"

"It's irrelevant. I will be ready to go in about fifteen minutes. If you can finish breakfast by then and get dressed, why not come along? You're not due at the clinic until after lunch."

"You do realise that parading that face around the Yard team is going to lead to some rather horrid comments."

Sherlock just snorted in derision. "As if I cared. I've never let bruises come between me and a good case before, why should I now?"

oOo

Thirty minutes later, their taxi was crawling through rush-hour traffic on Westbourne Grove, and they crossed the intersection with Queensway.

"Whatever it is you've been debating about saying, John, you have about three minutes more before we get there."

Yes, John had been thinking about how to broach the subject without pissing off Sherlock. "Well, he must have forgiven you, if he wants you on a crime scene again so soon, but it might be wise if you were to apologise."

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "Why would I apologise?"

"Maybe, because you pissed him off yesterday? Or did you get that face some other way than from connecting it with Lestrade's fist?"

"Forget it, John." Sherlock returned to the research he'd been doing on his mobile for the past fifteen minutes.

"Sherlock, you can't just pretend that it didn't happen. Social rules mean that when this sort of thing occurs you need to admit responsibility and apologise. Then you can both settle things and move on."

"I can assure you that Lestrade does not expect an apology from me."

_No, you never apologise, do you? _Now it was John's turn to shake his head, more in disbelief at his friend's social ineptitude than anything else. "You just don't get it, do you?"

There was no reply. The taxi turned onto Kensington Gardens Square, and John knew he had only a moment or two to get his point across. He could see that one of the houses about half way along the terrace was being renovated, and was covered by scaffolding and white plastic sheeting. But before he got his thoughts organised, the taxi ground to a halt and Sherlock was out of the back, and approaching the yellow police tape that cordoned off the renovation. He ducked under it without a backward glance, leaving John to pay the fare.

By the time he made it into Number 62, he could hear Sherlock's footsteps on the flight of stairs two floors above him. As he started up the first flight, he caught sight of Sally Donovan, who was crouching on the floor in the living room poking at some builder's tools. She saw him too and did not try to hide the smirk on her face. She threw a comment that followed him up the stairs. "I hope the Guv evens up the damage. Time the Freak got what he deserved." John sighed, and wondered what she had said when she'd first seen Sherlock.

When he got to the third floor, he could hear the nasal tones of Anderson from a room towards the back of the house. His heart sank. Lestrade's Murder Investigation Unit did not always get assigned the same Forensic Examiner, but it was sod's law that it would be today.

As John came into the room, Anderson was in full flow. "Well, at least today I won't have to get a blood sample to rule your contamination out. Lestrade showed me the blood spatter from yesterday, and I collected a sample. He finally got fed up with you, I see." His sneering triumph showed how much pleasure he was getting from the sight.

_Please, God, don't let him rise to the bait. _He started to step forward to get their attention.

Sherlock's baritone reply surprised him to the point where he almost stopped in his tracks.

"If you'd show me what you've found, I'd like to get started." Polite, calm, and not a trace of his usual aggravation with the CS Examiner.

As John came further into the room, he could see Anderson's confusion. He could also see that the three of them were the only people in the room. No sign of Lestrade.

Sherlock just waited for Anderson. Not a huff of derision or an attempt to push past him to get to get on with the work.

Nonplussed, Don Anderson faltered but then decided to play it safe. "Builder on the scene first thing this morning was stripping off old wallpaper, and came across new-ish plaster there." He gestured at what was now a jagged hole about two feet wide and three feet high. "He got curious and knocked through to find a void space. Runs the whole length of the house. And neat as can be, inside the space are two wrapped up bodies, one of them a little kid. Sealed in polythene, vacuum packed as best we can tell. The ME is in there now with them."

"Where's Lestrade?" John wanted to know, if only to buy time for Sherlock.

"He's out the back with the project manager, getting the low down on the buy-to-let renovation, the owners, who they bought it from, you know…" here he couldn't resist taking a dig at Sherlock, "…_proper_ police work where you actually get facts before you start _guessing_ about what might have happened."

Sherlock didn't even blink. In a perfectly polite tone, he asked "Is it alright if I see the bodies now?"

If Anderson was expecting a session of Sherlock-baiting, he wasn't getting it. He just shrugged, "suit yourself." But, old habits die hard. "Of course, I would prefer it if you would _suit yourself, _you know, by wearing a proper crime scene _suit_ like the rest of us, but we know _that _isn't going to happen anytime soon, don't we?" His sarcasm just rolled off of Sherlock like water off a duck's back. The tall man examined the edges of the broken plaster carefully before ducking into the hole.

The hidden space was narrow- less than eighteen inches wide at the back end of the house, about four meters to Sherlock's right, but from the emergency lighting that the medical examiner had dragged into the space, he could see that it was a bit wider toward the front of the house, which extended ten or twelve meters to the left. The ME in a blue plastic suit was bent over the longer of the two shiny wrapped bundles. He was taking photographs. Sherlock could hear the high pitched whine of the digital flashgun re-charging and closed his eyes just as it went off.

John poked his head through but realised that there was no way he'd fit in there with the other two men. So, he decided that he'd go find Lestrade and test the water. As he turned, he saw Anderson was removing samples of the wall paper and putting them into evidence bags.

The doctor gave him a stern look. "I'm going downstairs to speak to Detective Inspector Lestrade. While I'm down there, I'll get the suit on. You do know _why_ Sherlock doesn't wear one, don't you? It's not like he does it to annoy you personally. So for once in your life, try to be tolerant."

Anderson smirked. "Yeah, I _know_ the Freak's _problem_. I was there when he went into meltdown because of the gear. Look, I know it's not politically correct to criticise disability, but, it's just another reason why I don't think he belongs on any crime scene. A self-confessed sociopath gets in the way of our teamwork." Here he couldn't resist broadening the smirk. "And it looks like the DI has finally got the message, too." He couldn't help but chuckle. "I see he's trying to be on his best behaviour. Shows that Lestrade should have used his fist to shut him up years ago."

It was just like Anderson to draw the wrong conclusion about the one time Sherlock tried not to irritate him. The doctor just sighed. "Just leave him alone, will you?" He knew it was a forlorn hope, but he wanted to see Lestrade before Sherlock did.

Downstairs he pulled a pack from the pile by the front door, ripped open the plastic wrapper and pulled the blue suit on over his clothes. The combination of scent, feel and the horrible sound it made as the plastic rubbed- it irritated him, so he could imagine what it would do to Sherlock. For someone with sensory processing issues, it would be like being confined in your own personal torture chamber.

He met Lestrade coming down the ground floor hallway from the kitchen. The DI smiled a greeting. "Good- you're here. He's up there, is he? This one's a real puzzle. Nobody can figure out how long the bodies might have been there, because the wall paper is old, but the plaster is new. It just doesn't make sense." He started to put a fresh pair of latex gloves on. That's when he glanced into the living room, and saw Sally. He ducked his head in and realised that she was alone. "Where's Anderson?"

She just smiled. "Upstairs with the Freak."

Lestrade gave a rueful smile and headed up with John. "Right, better make sure they don't kill each other, shall we?"

"He's on best behaviour, Lestrade. Not a word that wouldn't pass as polite."

Lestrade's scepticism was evident. "You're joking, aren't you?"

The doctor gave him a slightly odd look. "No, perfectly serious. Whatever you said or rather _did_ to Sherlock yesterday has had the desired effect. He hasn't said a word out of line, despite the best efforts of Sally and Anderson to provoke him. They don't seem to be recognising a truce, even if Sherlock's waving a white flag."

On the second flight, they had to step aside as constables came down carrying body bags. The ME brought up the rear. "I'm taking them to the mortuary where I can cut open the vacuum packaging under controlled circumstances. Holmes said he'll be along shortly, but he's examining the void now."

When Lestrade reached the doorway of the back room on the top floor, Anderson was just coming out. "I just don't get it, sir. The plaster is clearly new compared to the rest of the wall. But the wall paper over it was six layers deep, and at least thirty years old- probably twice that. The bodies can't have been in there for long- they're not mummified, but there is no entry anywhere, not in this room or any that share the wall with the void. I've dusted for prints in the void- it's antiseptically clean. Out here I've checked the skirting boards and windows, but they aren't going to be contemporaneous with the bodies- most likely they'll check out to be the builders. I'll get someone to print the lot of them." He looked annoyed. "Oh, FYI, Holmes is hiding in the void- seems like yesterday you taught him some manners; about bloody time, too, Detective Inspector."

The idea of Sherlock being accused of hiding was just too ridiculous, but John crossed over to the hole and peered in. Sherlock had his back to the hole, and was staring up at the ceiling. "You alright, Sherlock?"

"Of course, John. Is Lestrade with you?"

"Yeah."

"Is Anderson gone?"

John looked behind him. Lestrade was just finishing up his conversation with the CS Examiner, who then clattered down the stairs. So, he turned back to the void. "Looks like it."

Sherlock came through the hole, crouching down to get his tall frame through the three foot tall space. He then stood up and waited. Lestrade turned away from the hallway and caught his first sight of Sherlock.

He stopped moving and just stared in shock. Then he closed his eyes for a moment, as if he couldn't bear the sight. "Oh, Sherlock, I'm so s…"

"Don't." Quietly but firmly spoken, Sherlock stopped him from continuing.

"But, Sher…"

" Don't. There is no need."

Greg lifted his hand to his own face and rubbed his forehead. "But, they've got it all wrong."

"And I said, don't. There is no need for any further discussion."

John could see the DI was distressed. Not angry, no- far from it. Embarrassed. Apologetic. Even in his body language. The doctor didn't understand what was going on, but it wasn't what he expected. And, in that moment, he realised that he might be intruding on something private. Sherlock was just calmly looking at the detective inspector, his face unreadable. Lestrade took a couple of steps closer to Sherlock. "It's not right, Sherlock. It's not fair, if they think…"

Again, Sherlock cut him off. "I don't care what _they_ think. You, however, do need to care. They have to respect you, if you are to do your job. So, let them think whatever they want about me."

The conversation was so cryptic that John was lost. He decided that retreat might be helpful. "Uh, I'm going to make myself scarce" and started to head for the door.

This time it was Lestrade who intervened first. "No, not John. Yeah, guess you're right about the rest of the team- but not John. I won't have him thinking this is your fault. That's just not right." He turned to John. "Shut the door, will you?"

Now John was in a bind. "Sherlock? Do you want me to go?" He realised something serious was going on, but wasn't sure that his friend would welcome his being there. After all, Lestrade had prior claim.

Sherlock sighed, then put up a hand in surrender.

Lestrade now closed the distance remaining between him and Sherlock, and surveyed the damage. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I couldn't help but think about it all last night, and felt guilty as hell. You were trying to help me, and like the idiot you always accuse me of being, I didn't get it then."

"No apology is needed. It's only fair."

That confused Lestrade. "No, you were right. Sometimes people change. It hurts like hell, but you were trying to tell me all along, and I just didn't _want _to see it. We're not all as gifted as you are at being able to see the truth."

John was utterly lost. "Okay, you don't mind me being here, but I feel like I'm in a foreign film- a few sub-titles, please?"

Lestrade turned to the doctor. "My wife finally left me- on the weekend. Our marriage is over- hurts like hell." Now he gestured at Sherlock, "he's been trying to tell me that for the past two years, and I took it out on him yesterday. Lost my temper and clobbered him- because he was right, because he was there, and because he would let me." Now he turned back to the brunet. "Not only that, you pushed me into hitting you so I wouldn't do something I'd regret, with someone who pissed me off on the team or, heaven forbid, the wife or her lover."

_Not exactly what a sociopath would do._ John decided that he might just be pushing his luck, but it was worth asking. "So, Sherlock, why'd you do that?"

"Lestrade's put up with more than enough from me over the years, seemed only fair to redress the balance a bit. Now, if you both wouldn't mind, I'd _really_ like to stop this tedious conversation and get back to what is a _very_ interesting case."

And John realised that it was all the explanation he was ever likely to get, so he shut up.

oOo

Two hours later, Sherlock solved the case. John and Lestrade were standing on one side of the mortuary slab with the woman's body, Molly was on the other side. The pathologist had completed the first autopsy, removing the organs, weighing them and then stitched the Y cuts up.

Sherlock paced in tight circles at the head of the three tables. The Police ME had done his job, handing over the bodies of a female who looked to be in her mid-thirties and a female infant- maybe a year to eighteen months old. Fingerprint scans showed neither was in the system. Dental records would be checked but he didn't hold out much hope "The woman's bridgework looks foreign; the little girl is too young to have needed it."

"So, Miss Hooper, how long do you think they've been dead?" Lestrade looked at the Pathologist, who was examining the skin of the woman.

She frowned. "It's hard to say. Because they were wrapped up, and vacuum packed, there is no aerobic decomposition. Anaerobic decomp is harder to calculate; a lot depends on how warm they got. But sooner or later the gases produced by the decomposition will burst the wrapper. If it was ordinary plastic, I'd guess not that long- a couple of weeks at best. But, given the strength of the plastic, it could have lasted for months." She shrugged apologetically. "I'm sorry, but I can't be any more precise. I do know that when the ME cut open the bags, a lot of gasses escaped, but, then again, the organs are still for the most part intact, yet showing signs of decomposition. It's a real puzzle."

Sherlock stopped his pacing and pulled his phone out, accessing something on the internet. Then made a phone call.

"Ah, is that Pritchard Estate Agents? I'm enquiring about a property you have to let on Kensington Gardens Square, at Number 64. I believe it's a top floor flat?" Molly, Greg and John waited as Sherlock listened to whatever was being said by the estate agent.

"Could you tell me how long it's been empty?"

...

"And if I needed to contact the former occupants, do you have an address for them?

...

"Yes- well, I do need it, because I urgently need to contact them regarding the death of a relative in Birmingham; there is an inheritance involved."

...

"That's very helpful, miss. Yes, I am sure that when they get the inheritance, they will be able to pay the rent which they owe you. Goodbye."

He turned back to face the three. "Anish Ranchod, Amina his wife, and Zani, their baby daughter lived in the flat next door, top floor of Number 64. They'd been renting for two years and then did a midnight flit, according to the estate agent, owing a month's rent. That was three weeks ago, so we have time of death. He and his wife were from Pakistan, their daughter was born eighteen months ago. That's probably not their real names, but what they told the letting agency."

"Let us assume that they came into the UK on a tourist visa and melted into the background. If they were legal, their fingerprints would be in the system. The credit check done by the agency before agreeing the lease has Ranchod down as working in the catering business. That's where another key clue emerges. It's the vacuum packing that gives it away- only a large food processing factory has access to vacuum technology and sheet polythene strong enough to keep the decomposition scent from escaping quickly."

Now he bent over the neck of the female's body, and exposed the slash. "Now- the method of death is interesting. Not just an ordinary knife wound. The large arteries of the neck along with the oesophagus and vertebrate trachea have been severed with one swipe of a non-serrated blade. Molly- can you confirm that the child was killed the same way, and that in neither case has there been damage to the nerves?"

"Yes- that's true. I …thought it a bit…you know…odd. In most cases, if someone slashes a throat, it's, um, done with more force and there is nerve damage, too. But not on these three."

"Then, Lestrade, you are looking for a halal caterer, who does butchery on site. The cutting technique is unique- designed to ensure that the animal bleeds to death before it could die from any other cause, such as a severed nerve stopping the heart. At this stage of decomposition, I doubt we would find any traces of blood, but given the technique used, I think it is logical to assume that there wasn't any when they were sealed in the heavy plastic. You will be able to identify which halal catering firm by the plastic used- it's a heavy-duty variety used to export meat, so a caterer with a business selling pre-packed, frozen halal meat, probably to Saudi Arabia, as it cannot meet demand during Hajj with local resources."

John was once again astonished by the breadth of Sherlock's knowledge. For someone who swore he deleted extraneous facts- like the solar system- he had the most bizarre collection of facts carefully stored away, such as the knife technique of a halal butcher and why Saudi Arabia had such a demand for meat that they'd import it from the UK.

"If that's true, then why didn't the murderer just butcher the bodies, freeze the remains and ship it off to the Middle East?"

Despite the gruesome nature of the discussion, Sherlock smiled. "You can thank the horse meat scandal for that- meat exports are being DNA tested. He wouldn't be able to take the chance that human DNA would be picked up."

John watched Sherlock closely examining the woman's skin across her breasts. "Sherlock, why are you thinking the husband is the murderer?

Sherlock now stood upright again, clasping his hands behind his back. "Have you done the organ dissections yet, Molly?"

She shook her head.

"Then please examine the woman's uterus. I think you will find that she is pregnant- possible as far along as six or seven months."

She looked startled. "How would you know that?" She moved to the dissection table and lifted one of the plastic containers. She had set aside the organs to take tissue samples later.

"The nature and location of their death suggests an honour killing. Nevertheless the bodies were treated with some respect. When you look for the catering firm, it will be the one whose halal butcher has joined in the last month. I expect Ranchod has returned to Pakistan- but on his real passport, so untraceable."

"Oh!" The pathologist sounded startled- she must have found something. Sherlock smirked. "Careful with that scalpel, Molly. You will need to preserve the foetus as evidence, and we may be able to get DNA evidence."

She brought over the stainless steel pan, in which the dissected uterus lay, and nodded to Sherlock.

Lestrade put it together. "So, she was pregnant, and the husband knows it isn't his, so he murdered her. That's horrible enough, but why kill his own daughter, too?"

John answered before Sherlock. "Can he be sure she _is_ his daughter? He might have thought she was also the product of adultery."

"DNA will be needed, Molly. An illegal immigrant, a halal butcher, believes his wife to be an adulteress, but fears losing everything if he makes a public spectacle of her shame. So, he does the deed in the only way he knows how, with his own knife, applying the same technique he uses every day. For all we know, he is now back in Pakistan trying to find a new wife."

The DI then frowned at Sherlock. "But, I still don't understand how the bodies got placed in the space between the two flats. There is no way the guy could have broken through into the void from the other side. The party wall between the two buildings is at least two feet wide of solid brick- and there is absolutely no sign of disturbance in it- we looked very carefully. So, I don't get it."

Sherlock gave one of his trademark smirks. "No, I don't suppose you would, but then most police had a two-dimensional mind, even you, Lestrade."

John realised what Sherlock meant- it's what he saw when he looked through the hole and saw the brunet looking up. "The ceiling? You're saying he came through the roof?"

The consulting detective nodded. "I'm sure you'll find that the flat in Number 64 has an attic. So, when you take a look, you will probably find signs of breaking through to the house next door's roof space. After putting the bodies in, he re-laid the ceiling boards, covered it over with loft insulation, and then probably hid the entrance from Number 64, too. Being sealed in there would delay the bodies being discovered for quite some time. Even when the plastic burst, the renovators would have trouble figuring out where the smell was coming from- and I'd bet it would put off potential buyers for months, if not years."

Lestrade was thinking it through. "Only one problem with that Sherlock. The builders found the new plaster under the really old paper. How do you explain that?"

Sherlock's smile broadened. "Of course, when the murderer hid the bodies, he'd have seen the crumbling plaster from the _inside_ of the void, and worried about the scent escaping. So, he fixed it, never dreaming that it would actually raise suspicions. He nearly got away with it; most builders would have just put it down as a damp spot and carried on. The builder who got curious is to be commended, Lestrade. He's just saved the new owners a great deal of trouble."

John looked down at the two bodies, and was filled with an overwhelming sense of sadness. "What a waste- it seems so very cruel."

"The institution of marriage is responsible for an extraordinary amount of crime, John. It is fortunate that most don't end with a murder." If the consulting detective and the detective inspector exchanged a meaningful glance, John decided not to mention it.


	63. Chapter 63

**Got My Eye on You**

**Chapter Sixty Three The Best Man**

**Setlock and Series 3 SPOILER ALERT! Don't like, don't read! However, most know that Moffat has hinted about a wedding, so this is my take.**

* * *

John's face was flushed. The heady cocktail of adrenaline, pleasure, and excitement showed in the wide grin he flashed at Sherlock. The bride's father's speech had been warm and funny, John's reply was gallant and generous. As he sat down, John leaned over and said "It's your turn."

This was greeted with silence by the brunet, which prompted John to quickly add, "Are you okay with this? If not, I'll understand."

"I'm fine. It's all fine," was the quiet reply as Sherlock stood up. All eyes in the room came to rest on the tall slim figure in morning suit. Studiously avoiding the video camera, he drew a deep breath.

"As this is the first wedding I've ever been bothered to attend, I have done some preparatory research." He fixed his gaze on Mrs Hudson, at the third table along. Somehow, looking at her encouraging smile was easier than seeing so many unknown faces. He cleared his throat.

"I'm not accustomed to public speaking; well, not outside of a courtroom or at crime scenes, neither of which bear much resemblance to this gathering." He paused for a moment. "Personally, I think this one is a whole lot scarier." There were a some smiles and gentle laughter at that comment, particularly from Greg Lestrade.

"I know that there are some of you in the room who thought that John's choice of me as his best man was a triumph of loyalty over common sense, and I gather that there is a sizeable betting pool as to how long it will be before I say something rude, inappropriate or cause a major scene. I am afraid I have to disappoint you on that score. I've promised the bride that I will be on my best behaviour, and, quite frankly, I am more afraid of her anger than I am of John's." This was greeted by some gentle laughter.

"During my research, I must admit to being…puzzled by the sort of advice that is offered to those who are talked into the role of best man. According to one website, I am supposed to offer a series of risqué stories about the groom's sexual exploits prior to his becoming engaged, and to reveal something embarrassing to him, for your entertainment. Again, I fear I shall disappoint. John and I have had numerous discussions about his deplorable taste in television programming; I have never understood so-called 'stand-up comedy', so please don't expect any such frivolity from me."

"What I will say about John is that he has been the best friend a man could ever have, and I know that Mary will learn, if she has not already done so, that John Watson is the best friend she will ever have. I can also tell her now that for as long as I've known John, he has had a dream of meeting a woman he could love, marry and with whom he could have a family. As most of you who know John are already aware, he is an impeccable judge of character. So, as he has chosen Mary to be that woman, then I know she will live up to that dream. From personal experience, I can tell her that John is patient, kind, and honourable. But, of course, she already knows this."

He now looked over at Mary and addressed her directly. "Mary, I do need to thank you personally for one particular thing. You have my gratitude for finally putting to rest the idea that John was a "confirmed bachelor"- he raised his fingers to make the quotation marks in the air- "and for putting the lie to the idea and that he and I were anything more than flatmates, colleagues and friends. This, of course, has deprived the tabloid newspapers of some fun, for which both John and I are eternally grateful." This was greeted by hearty laughter.

"Another duty of the best man's speech is to thank the bridesmaids." He glanced over at Mary's sister, Sadie. "I am still rather in the dark as to what their role has been, but if it was to ensure that Mary showed up on time and in the proper dress, then I am grateful for John's sake that they did so. I have watched John fearlessly tackle hardened criminals, face gunfire and deal with the gutter press- all without showing anything but resolute courage and quiet fortitude. I once said he had nerves of steel- but today, at the thought that Mary might have had second thoughts and decided not to show up, well I saw a nervous John that I had never known before. So, bridesmaids, for making sure that the bride arrived on time, I thank you."

"One website insisted it was the best man's role to dance with the maid of honour, but I fear I shall have to disappoint Sadie, unless someone can convince the DJ to play a waltz- which I deduce is highly unlikely, given the state of his Metallica T shirt, the callous on his left thumb and the five rings in his left ear." As the guests' laughter erupted, John smirked and gestured at Mary, "HER choice, not mine!" in mock horror.

Now Sherlock looked down at the table, focusing on the flower arrangement that was alongside his table place-card.

"I won't delay you much longer from the final course of the meal- the cake will be cut shortly. Before that, I just want to say that I am the one here who is a fraud. John is the _best man_ in the room and, as such, he deserves happiness. I am glad he has finally found it with Mary. I ask you all to raise your glasses with me, and join me in a toast."

In his best baritone voice, Sherlock said, "To John and Mary's happiness." The guests stood and echoed the toast. As he sat down, John just said to him, "That was…amazing." Applause and cheering erupting as John then leaned over and kissed Mary.

oOo

When the bride and groom left their seats to be photographed cutting the cake, guests got up from their tables to watch. With everyone's attention on that, Sherlock slipped out of the marquee.

Ten minutes later, Greg Lestrade went looking for him. He checked the loo first, then went out into the gardens surrounding the marquee. He found him eventually, leaning up against the stone wall, taking a very deep drag on a cigarette.

"Go away, Lestrade."

"My name is Greg, as you well know. No need to stand on ceremony- this isn't a crime scene."

"Isn't it?" The irony was evident in the brunet's reply.

Greg decided to tackle the issue head on. "That was a fine performance."

Sherlock grunted a reply and took another drag. When the smoke had cleared his lungs, he asked in a husky voice, "lose a lot of money then?"

"Nope- I won the pool. I bet you'd pull off a BAFTA performance of normality. Felt like a cheat, though. After all, I've known how good an actor you are since you were a skinny sixteen year old."

Lestrade looked at Sherlock. _That morning suit is just…perfect. _ He knew that Sherlock had insisted on sourcing both his and John's outfits, and that a Jermyn Street tailor was involved. In comparison, Lestrade's blue suit looked very pedestrian.

Greg took a matching pose, leaning on the wall alongside Sherlock. "Have you got another cigarette for me?"

"No. Just the one. A reward for getting through it."

Lestrade smiled. "What you did in there for John was true friendship. You let him believe that you're just fine about his getting married. But, I know better. So, despite appearances, what's going on in that head of yours? What's the _real_ truth?"

Sherlock still hadn't looked him in the eye. He smoked with intent, concentrating on every intake of nicotine as if his life depended on it. After a moment or two, he replied, "Nothing I said in there was a lie."

"Half a truth can be even more misleading that a blatant untruth, Sherlock. You know that better than most people."

Sherlock handed Greg his cigarette, which the DI took and gratefully dragged in a mouthful of smoke before handing it back. Sherlock then asked quietly, " What would a _real_ person in their _real _life think about the situation?"

Greg thought about it. "A real person would feel…bereft. It's a dramatic change when someone who has been at the centre of your life for the past six years just goes off and starts a different life with someone else. So, distress, loneliness, regret- those feelings are understandable- even for _you_, Sherlock."

"You are speaking from personal experience about your divorce. But, as John will always tell anyone who would listen, we weren't a couple."

Greg sighed. "I never heard _you_ say that."

"I had nothing to say about such a bizarre idea, and I have nothing to say now."

"Sherlock…"

"Don't, just don't. If I had to count the number of times someone who thinks of themselves as a friend of mine has offered me 'advice' since the news of John's engagement first broke…it's as if everyone thinks I am going to go to pieces. You've avoided that cliché until now. I would be grateful if you could continue to do so."

Greg considered the idea for a moment, and then rejected it. "I suppose everyone has been telling you, John included, that being married won't change his friendship with you."

"Of course. All lies, but it somehow seems to make people feel better to say that. Most peculiar, in my view. His being married changes _everything_."

"He will still be your friend."

That seemed to provoke the first flash of anger in the grey eyes that would still not look at him. "That idea is ridiculous. Our friendship was defined in the moments we shared in the flat and in the work we did on crime scenes. Take those away, and there is nothing left in common. Nothing at all."

"That's being a bit hard on John. Are you saying he won't try?"

Sherlock took a last drag on the stub of a cigarette. "No, I'm _not_ saying that. He will _try_ to do what he does with all of his other friends- a phone call or text, the occasional invitation to meet up at a pub, or share a coffee, a meal. Because of Mary, he might even involve her in it. Most of his friends in that marquee have taken to her, as hers have embraced him. They will have a shared social life with a wide circle, I have no doubt."

"But you don't intend to be part of that?"

Now Sherlock looked at him askance. "What part of your experience of me suggests that such a thing is even remotely possible?"

"So, you're not even going to try?"

Sherlock dropped the cigarette butt, and ground it out carefully with his expensive leather shoe, crushing it against the gravel path. "What's the point? The last three months have been a dress rehearsal, as Mary and the wedding plans took over. He's moved his stuff out of Baker Street and into her flat. He upped his hours at the clinic to full time, to start building their deposit for a house. Once they are back from the honeymoon, contact will steadily decrease as their life together expands to fill his available leisure time. Then in the near future, she'll get pregnant and then family responsibilities will intrude, narrowing John's free time even more. Even if we did 'meet up' as the saying goes, what the hell would we talk about? Our relationship was based on living and working together. He used to need me, he doesn't now. Why drag it out in a slow death? Compared to his other friends, I'm too high maintenance."

"You're not just another friend to him, Sherlock. He won't let go so easily."

"Then I will make it simple for him. Better that, than have some misguided sense of loyalty or guilt force him into trying to sustain something that has died. Life after death is overrated."

"That's the first time I've heard bitterness from you. At least that's honest."

"This is the first time John has ever been selfish in his relationship with me. But, I meant what I said in there. He deserves it- happiness. That's what life for _real_ people is supposed to be about."

"What about _your_ happiness?"

"There's no such thing. Never has been, never will be. I don't 'get' the concept. It's meaningless. What is, is. That's all. Sentiment just…gets in the way." He pushed himself off the wall and started back toward the tent.

But before Sherlock had got more than a step away, Greg reached out and held his arm, feeling the flinch, but not letting go. When Sherlock turned back in annoyance to glare at him, Greg just said quietly, "so says the man who jumped off a roof to save the lives of three people he cared about."

Sherlock looked away. "That was then; this is now. All I have left is The Work. So, if you want to be a _friend_ to me, Lestrade, then find me good cases. That's all I want from you. That's all I'm good for now."

He shrugged off Greg's hand and moved out of reach. The older man sighed, and kept his eye on Sherlock as he strode across the lawn, back towards the marquee.


	64. Chapter 64

**Got My Eye On You**

**Chapter Sixty Four: The Great Man (Part One)**

* * *

**Author's Note:** After T**_he Best Man_ **covered in the last Chapter, I am returning to an earlier time- what happened to Greg and Sherlock leading up to the roof of St Bart's and after. A series of multi-chapter stories entitled: _**The Great Man**_, then another titled, _**The Good Man**_, and then a reunion fic, **_The Better Man_**. Of course, as we await Series Three, it's all speculation! As ever, the dialogue from the broadcast episode is based on Ariane DeVere's excellent transcript.

* * *

"You can't kill an idea, can you? Not once it's made a home ..." Sherlock closed the distance between them, reached forward and gently touched his index fingertip to Greg's forehead, "... there."

Tightly lipped, Greg just asked, "Will you come?" He knew the irony of that phrase. He didn't need Sherlock's help on a case this time; he needed to show his team that he was doing things by the book. It was a ridiculous idea that Sergeant Donovan had started running with – that Sherlock had not only solved the kidnapping case, he'd perpetrated it in the first place. But until Sherlock could be questioned and provide an alibi, the suspicions would gain traction. Like a cat who'd spent his nine lives, Sherlock had finally run out of good will at the Metropolitan Police, and those who had been jealous of Lestrade's clear-up rate were now circling like vultures.

Sherlock didn't reply. He sat down at the table and began to type on his laptop. "One photograph – that's his next move. Moriarty's game: first the scream, then a photograph of me being taken in for questioning. He wants to destroy me inch by inch." He picked up the hidden camera that he had just discovered, examining it carefully before raising his eyes again to Greg. "It is a game, Lestrade, and not one I'm willing to play." He looked away from Greg and just dismissed him with a quiet "Give my regards to Sergeant Donovan."

For a moment, Greg wondered whether he should persevere, or perhaps appeal to John's more obliging nature, to get the doctor to try to persuade Sherlock to see sense. It was for his own good- Sherlock needed to put to rest the rumours about his role in the kidnapping. But, to be questioned called into question everything about the consulting detective, and Greg knew he was asking a lot of the man. He'd come in the vain hope that Sherlock's logic would overcome his pride and he would agree voluntarily. The DI also knew that Moriarty was manipulating him along with the rest of the Met; procedures made him just as much a pawn in this game as any of the victims of the crimes that the consulting criminal had perpetrated. But, he had no choice. It wasn't like Sherlock was actually _guilty_. The DI sighed, and unhappily turned back down the steps where he met an angry Sally Donovan at the foot of the stairs.

She followed him out into the street. Before he got into the back of the car, Greg looked up at the windows of the flat and saw John watching him. He felt the hostility in the gaze. _I know how you feel, mate. I'm none too happy about this myself._

Sally climbed in the other side and slammed the door. As soon as the car pulled away from the kerb, she lit into Lestrade. "Why didn't you pull him in?" She was outraged.

"I don't have a warrant, do I? And, if you recall your police procedure, he's under no obligation to help us with our enquiries." Greg's tone was sarcastic. He slouched back on the seat and looked despondent.

It just wound up Sally more. "He's running circles around you, Detective Inspector, and like some ….I don't know, some dog, you just roll over and let him. It's not good enough. The proof is sitting there on the evidence table; you've seen it. You can't deny it. It's circumstantial at the moment but it's enough to justify a warrant. If you won't get one because of some sort of misguided loyalty, then I will just have to go over your head."

That infuriated Lestrade. "Yeah, you'd just _love_ to do that, wouldn't you? You've been storing up your jealousy for years and now, when he's been cornered by Moriarty, you've got your chance. There was a time when being a member of my team meant we worked together on things, took decisions and when we disagreed about something we worked it out as colleagues. Where did that loyalty go, Donovan? What's happened to you?"

She snapped back. "I don't owe _him_ any loyalty. And maybe I've just got fed up with his prancing about like he owned the place. He's had you under his thumb for so long you don't even recognise it any more. You've given me no choice but to go over your head. At least I'm giving you the courtesy of telling you, so you can't accuse me of going behind your back. Want to defend his corner? Then come with me to the Chief Super- and make your case."

"So, you're resorting to ultimatums, now, Donovan? What happened to solving team differences within the team?"

She crossed her arms and stared straight ahead. "You've turned a blind eye too often, Detective Inspector. Anderson and I brought the evidence to you. If you choose to ignore it, then you'll be in dereliction of duty. If I can prove that Holmes is the one who kidnapped the kids in the first place so he could appear to be their saviour, then you're going to have an awful lot of explaining to do. Trying to stifle an investigation is only the first offense. Care to add some more?"

He didn't reply. He spent the rest of the journey thinking about what happened to great men when the people they made feel small got their revenge. It worried him. The anxiety that had been building for the past six months, as Sherlock grappled with Moriarty, now spilled over into outright panic. He felt trapped into doing what his job, his training, his responsibility required of him, even if it was at the expense of his friendship with Sherlock. _You're a bastard, Moriarty, and if I ever get my hands on you again…._

oOo

By the time the car got back to New Scotland Yard, Greg knew that he had no alternative but to take this to the Chief Superintendent himself. If he didn't, then Sally would be able to push him aside and keep him off the investigation team. Sherlock's best hope would be to have someone on the team who didn't assume he was the guilty party. She had him over a procedural barrel, and she knew it. There was a spring in her stride as she followed him into the building. She had her phone out and was asking someone to join them in the Chief's office.

"Who are you speaking to, Donovan?"

"Anderson; as the Crime Scene Examiner on the scene, he has the right to be there. After all, it's his evidence."

"That's not necessary. Call him back and tell him to stay at his desk."

The woman stopped and glared at him. "Lestrade, just keep obstructing things and you'll be forced to recuse yourself. Don Anderson is going to be there."

Greg drew in a shaky breath. Donovan and Anderson were clearly planning to enjoy doing this. Even when the evidence was proved to be circumstantial and Sherlock was released, they were going to extract every moment of revenge for all those insults over the years. A piece of him just wanted to find Moriarty and force him and his plans out into the open. He could not have orchestrated a better way to destroy Sherlock than giving Donovan and Anderson some rope with which to hang him. And Greg felt utterly powerless to stop the two of them from taking the next inevitable steps.

Mindful of the need to be seen to be neutral and unbiased, to avoid jeopardising his chance to remain on the investigation, Greg explained the problem to the Chief. He'd always disliked the man. A bluff northerner who liked to pretend he was a working class copper, the Chief had never been an operational detective. He'd neem parachuted into the job by the previous commissioner with a brief to cut costs. Lestrade knew his own brain wasn't in Sherlock Holmes' league, but over the years, he'd realised he was a good detective with a pretty sharp grasp of the esstentials. _I need to be to keep up with Sherlock. _But, the Chief was remarkably dim. He was struggling to understand the issue.

"Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes, sir."

"That bloke that's been in the press."

Lestrade nodded.

"I thought he was some sort of private eye."

"He is."

"We've been consulting with him – that's what you're ... you're telling me? Not used him on any proper cases, though, have we?"

How could this man be as dumb as this? Greg knew that the higher ups in the Met were more concerned with political relations than with police operations, but the man must have been reading the newspapers, if not the Assistant Commissioner's reports about the department's successes. He decided to minimise the issue if he could get away with it. "Well, one or two."

But Anderson, standing behind the DI, was quick to correct him. "Or twenty or thirty."

That made the Chief look up in surprise. "What?"

Greg realised that he was now on the edge of losing this, so made a play to spread the responsibility. "Look, I'm not the only senior officer who did this. Gregson ..."

It didn't work. The Chief just cut him off. "Shut up! An amateur detective given access to all sorts of classified information, and now he's a suspect in a case!"

Lestrade tried again. "With all due respect, sir ..." but the man wasn't having it.

"You're a bloody idiot, Lestrade! Now go and fetch him in right now!"

When he hesitated, the Chief just barked, "Do it!"

Greg stood and walked out, with Anderson and Donovan following close behind. As soon as they were out of earshot of the Chief, he growled at them, "Are you proud of yourselves?"

Anderson couldn't resist his moment of triumph. "Well, what if it's not just this case? What if he's done this to us every single time?" As Sally made for the door, Anderson followed, even though there was no legitimate crime scene for him to examine. Nothing in the world was going to stop him from being there to witness the arrest of Sherlock Holmes. Neither of them saw Greg reach for his own coat, fish into his pocket and hit speed dial. _Not Sherlock; if anyone finds out I've tipped off a suspect, I'll be pushed off the case as fast as that Chief desk jockey can blink. No, John will know what to do._

oOo

Lestrade fully expected John to tell Sherlock what was coming, and that the man would disappear before the police showed up to arrest him. While it might look like he was guilty, Greg had every faith in Sherlock's ability to gather whatever evidence he needed to prove his innocence, no matter how diabolical Moriarty's trap might be._ Better outside fighting his own corner than locked up being interrogated by every Tom, Dick and Harry police officer he's pissed off over the years. _

In the back of the squad car, Sally was on the phone. With a start, he realised she was talking to SO19. "Yep, we're on our way to 221b Baker Street to arrest a suspect, and we know that there is an illegal gun in the flat, which means you need to get armed response there the same time we do. Make it happen."

As she broke off the call, Greg just let rip. "Is that _really_ necessary? You know it isn't Sherlock's gun and that he's hardly going to come out shooting like some Wild West desperado." He was now so angry that he could hardly bother to be civil to her.

She sat smugly back on the seat, a grin splitting her face. "It's protocol, Guv! And you know it just as much as I do. She quoted from the regulations, '_if a suspect is known to be armed and likely to resist arrest, contact the appropriate command for armed backup, rather than expose officers and the public to the threat of gunfire.'_ You've turned a blind eye to Watson's weapon for the past three years. This time, we've doing this by the book; no more bending the rules for Sherlock Holmes. And if he is humiliated by it, then good. That's just fine by me."

_If she was a bloke, I'd have punched her by now. _He just held his temper, and hoped that the sirens would alert the occupants of Baker Street to get out of the flat as soon as possible, if they had not already done so.

By the time Lestrade got out of the car, there were two other police cars on the scene at Baker Street, which was ablaze with blue and red lights and people milling about. An officer was already banging on the door, shouting "police!"

It was Mrs Hudson who answered the door, and she looked stunned by the sight of all the officers and cars. Sergeant Donovan pushed past her into the doorway and shouted up the stairs, "Sherlock!" Lestrade tried to reassure the elderly lady, "Evening, Mrs Hudson."

Sally bellowed up, "…we need to talk to you!" and then beckoned two of the armed police up the stairs with her.

Mrs Hudson was outraged at the officers' behaviour, as they pushed her back against the wall. She cried out "Don't barge in like that!" Lestrade steadied her to make sure she didn't fall, and then followed the other three up the stairs. Half way up on the landing, John was waiting. Arms crossed and angry as hell, he shouted at Sally, "Have you got a warrant? Have you?"

Sergeant Donvoan had the momentum going to take her right past the doctor, and when he tried to grab the arm of one of the officers with her, Lestrade cautioned him, "Leave it, John" as Mrs Hudson came up behind him, still angry and complaining, "Really! Manners!"

When Greg got into the living room, Sally Donovan and the two officers were glaring at Sherlock, who stood quietly with his coat and scarf on. John followed him in, and, as he pushed by, Greg could feel the anger coming off from the shorter man.

For a moment, no one moved. Unlike John, the tall silent figure was calm, contained, his expression controlled and neutral. Sherlock didn't look at anyone but Greg, who mouthed a silent _I'm sorry_ and shook his head. Because everyone else was looking at Sherlock, no one but Sherlock saw Greg's regret. Sally snapped, "Do the honours, Lestrade, or I will. In fact, I'd be _delighted_ to."

The brunet gave an imperceptible nod, and averted his gaze as Greg approached and said "Sherlock Holmes, I'm arresting you on suspicion of abduction and kidnapping."

One of the armed officers attached handcuffs to Sherlock's left wrist, as John complained. "He's not resisting," appealing to Lestrade to leave his friend some shred of self respect.

As the officer pulled Sherlock's left hand behind his back in order to cuff his other wrist, Sherlock said quietly, "It's all right, John."

But John wouldn't have it. He repeated, louder, "He's not resisting. No, it's not all right. This is ridiculous."

Lestrade just said in a resigned tone. "Get him downstairs now." The officer spun Sherlock around and marched him out of the room and down the stairs.

Mrs Hudson was almost in tears, as John snapped at Lestrade, "You know you don't have to…"

Greg realised that John's anger was about to boil over and cause a scene. If Sherlock had decided to not take the opportunity to bolt, then his second best chance at clearing his name needed John on the outside working to clear his name. Greg knew he had to do something quickly. He came up close to John and pointed his finger at the doctor's chest. "Don't try to interfere, or I shall arrest you too." He turned around and left, hoping his warning would help John realise what was best for Sherlock. He prayed that Sally, who remained behind, would not provoke him. As he went down the stairs, he met the Chief Superintendent coming back up the stairs. Greg kept his tongue, but groaned to himself. _That's all we need; this idiot coming to add salt to the wounds._

Outside, the scene seemed to have become even more crowded. Lestrade wondered whether any of the SO6special protection boys had turned up. If so, they were going to be as confused as hell that the person they were detailed to protect was now the subject of police arrest. He found himself praying that Mycroft was already aware and at work in the background trying to get this mess sorted. _If there was ever a time to interfere, big brother, this is it._

Greg watched as the SO19 officer pushed Sherlock hard against the side of the squad car and made him spread his legs for a body search. Lestrsade closed his eyes, briefly distressed for Sherlock's sake. He didn't like being touched at the best of times. Amidst the noise and confusion, with the police car lights swirling their colours, and the stress of all these unknown faces, Lestrade worried about Sherlock's sensory perception disorder. Would he go into meltdown under the onslaught? This was _so_ not the way to do this. He turned to see if he could find the SO19 officer in charge. A word about the suspect might help calm things down.

He was in conversation on just this point when another armed officer came out of Baker Street pushing John Watson. Behind him came the Chief Superintendent holding a bloodied handkerchief to his streaming nose. _Oh God, that's torn it. He's gone and provoked Watson into punching him._ John was slammed up against the same squad car as Sherlock, and Greg could see the taller figure turn to talk with his shorter friend. Behind them the officers changed the cuffing, so that the two suspects being arrested were now handcuffed together, facing the side of the police car.

Greg started to move forward- putting those two side-by-side was not a good idea. A Sherlock content to be taken in was not the same as Sherlock when John was at risk. He knew that better than anyone else on the scene. But before he could take his second step, all hell broke loose. Sherlock reached into the police car's front window and hit something on the dashboard that made half the uniformed officers double over in pain, then then Greg watched in utter horror as the brunet turned around and calmly helped himself to the SO19 officer's handgun. Sherlock raised the weapon in his hand, dragging John's cuffed hand up with his own as he called out in a loud baritone, "Ladies and gentlemen, will you all please get on your knees?"

When no one reacted, he raised the gun to the sky and fired twice. "NOW would be good!" He pulled the weapon back down and pointed it at the SO19 officer. Greg was scared witless that the guy would try to tackle Sherlock and that something horrible would happen, so he bellowed as loud as he could "Do as he says!" Greg gestured with his hands downwards and the officers started to comply.

Sherlock started to back away from the police car, pulling a startled John with him. Watson shouted, "just, just so that you're aware, the gun is his idea. I'm just a…you know…a.."

Sherlock transferred the gun to his right hand and pointed it at John's head, then completed the doctor's sentence. "…my hostage."

John gasped and said something Greg couldn't hear to Sherlock, who continued to move back until they were at the corner. Then they disappeared from view. Greg just lowered his head into his hands. _Oh, Sherlock- what have you done! Every bloody cop in town is now going to be after you, including the ones that shoot first and ask questions later._

The Chief Superintendent got to his feet and turned to Greg. With a bellow, he shouted "Get after him, Lestrade!" Sally took off after the pair, as Lestrade gave her a look that could have killed. He followed, hoping to God that the pair would get safely away.


	65. Chapter 65

**Chapter Sixty Five: **

**The Great Man (Part Two)**

* * *

Greg caught up with Sally Donovan and two SO19 officers less than five minutes later, down a side street. She waved a gun in a gloved hand. "Holmes ditched this right in plain sight, in the middle of the street. Presumably, he's smart enough to know that if he kept it we'd have no choice but to use weapons." She put the gun in an evidence bag and gave it to Lestrade. "Come on; he can't have gotten far."

"You go; I'm going to get onto HQ and get more help." She frowned at him, but bolted off with the two officers in tow.

On his way back to Baker Street, Lestrade contacted the Control Room and ordered more cars to patrol the nearby streets to see if they could catch sight of the fugitive pair. He made sure that other foot patrols from the nearby stations were on their way, and called in the police helicopter. In the inevitable investigation that would be made of the incident, it would be important to show that he'd done the right thing without delay. The calls were monitored and time stamped, so gave him some sense of protection. At the moment, all he could think of was staying on the investigation team, and trying to make sure that it was an unarmed policeman who cornered them rather than some trigger-happy SO19 officer who had watched too many American SWAT team videos. _Thank God, he got rid of the gun!_

As he got back to 221b, he saw all the lights in the flat were on and through the windows he could see blue-suited CSEs at work. While he was looking up, the Chief Superintendent came over and pulled him aside. The man's nose was a mess of dried blood and swelling up nicely. He was still red faced with anger, and his didn't hold back.

"You have one chance, and I mean _one_, to make this right, Lestrade. Find him _now_ and get him in a cell before he makes monkeys of this force. The tabloids are just going to _love_ this fiasco, and I will not have this Holmes guy destroy our reputation. A simple arrest, that's all I want, but I want it NOW. I am holding you _personally_ responsible, Detective Inspector. If you want your job- hell, if you want to get a pension after I force you into early retirement, you're going to get that madman locked up tonight. You will telephone me with an update every hour, do you hear me?"

"I'd get that seen to at an A&E, Chief; it looks broken." Lestrade just tried to stay focused and not let the man rattle him anymore than he already had. In his worst nightmares, he had imagined having to arrest Sherlock for going over the boundaries of proper procedure, but never in his grim fantasies had he imagined a scenario as bad as this one.

Less than a half hour later, he was beginning to think that Sherlock just might have pulled the escape off. There were no reports or sightings. So, he decided there was little point in hanging around as the Crime Scene Examiners tore the flat to shreds looking for non-existant evidence. He was in the back of one of the cars heading back to New Scotland Yard when he overheard the Control Room despatcher on the car's Airwave police radio, "three shots fired in the vicinity of Baker Street and Portman Square; bus driver reported narrowly missing two men in the street. Foot patrol is on its way."

Lestrade shouted at the driver to turn the car around.

By the time he arrived, the road was already blocked, and the scene was being taped off. Donovan was there talking to two uniformed officers and, as he ducked under the tape, he saw the dark form of a body lying on the street. For a split second, Greg froze. Then his brain processed the visual image and he realised that whoever it was, he was too short to be Sherlock, and too tall to be John. When he knelt down to take a look, he was joined by a blue suited CS Examiner. With a start, Greg recognised Anderson.

Anderson did little to contain his sneer. "Well, who would believe it? First he resists arrest, then he takes a hostage and now we have a dead body. Doesn't exactly inspire confidence in his innocence, does it, Detective Inspector?"

"Just do your job, Anderson. Tell me how he died."

"Three bullet wounds, through and through. In the back. So Sherlock's a coward, too."

"Shut up, Anderson. You have no proof that this is even connected."

Anderson just rocked back on his heels and looked at Greg with an incredulous expression. "What are the odds of this being a co-incidence- not more than a quarter of a mile away from an earlier shooting incident?"

Greg just snarled "Who is he?" Anderson reached into the man's jacket pocket and pulled out an ID. "Jean Paul LeFabre, according to his EU driver's license. French. God, he's killed some innocent tourist."

Greg couldn't take it anymore. "Shut up, Anderson. That's enough out of you. However much you might want this to be the result of what happened tonight with Sherlock, until you get me incontrovertible proof, I will continue to follow my oath of duty and presume someone is innocent until proven guilty. If you can't find your professional ethics amidst your jealousy, then recuse yourself and I will find someone who can do so."

That made the two men stand up and face each other, each livid with anger. Anderson nearly shrieked, "ME? You're saying _I_ should step away from the case? What about _you_, Lestrade? You're such a buddy of those two fugitives that you're probably helping them escape by being purposefully inept. I have every mind to complain to the Director of Forensics. In fact, I _will_. This has just gone on too long. I won't have you impugning my skills or my professionalism for a moment longer!"

"Listen Anderson, you may not have heard yet. Sally Donovan recovered the gun that Sherlock took. He dropped it five minutes after leaving the flat. So what's he used to do this murder? Before you start jumping to conclusions, give me an idea what kind of gun killed this man and find me a bullet. If your skills aren't up to that, then get the body moved to the morgue as quick as you can so the medical examiner can tell me the answers I need."

Lestrade spun on his heel and walked off. He stopped to speak briefly to Donovan through clenched teeth. "House-to-house, Sergeant. I want an eye-witness who can tell me what happened after the bus driver saw the two men jump in front of him."

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. "And what are _you_ going to be doing in the meantime, Detective Inspector?"

"I'm heading back to the Yard so I can get a look at the CCTV footage. It might tell us more than all these bloody foot patrols." He started to walk away back to his car.

She called after him. "Holmes knows where every camera is in Central London. If he doesn't want to be seen, you won't find him. But then, you don't actually _want_ to find him, do you Lestrade?"

He didn't bother to turn around, just shouted back over his shoulder, "Do your job, Sergeant and I'll do mine."

oOo

Back at the office, he found that DI Dimmock was setting up a new evidence board. With Sherlock and John's photos prominently featuring, Sally's evidence was now displayed. The younger DI was briefing his team when Lestrade walked into the back of the open plan room.

"The Chief has asked us to review the case of the kidnapping and to re-evaluate the evidence in light of the new development. We have a new prime suspect, but so far the evidence is circumstantial. We need more if we are to bring this to a prosecution."

One of PCs on Dimmock's team spoke up. "That's assuming we can catch the bugger. I've heard he's pretty good at avoiding capture." There were a few nods around the rest of the team.

Dimmock caught Lestrade's eye. "Well, let's ask the expert in Holmes. Lestrade, any ideas where he might be?"

For a moment, Greg debated about saying what he really felt instead of what he knew he _should_ say. Discretion triumphed.

"Haven't a clue, Dimmock, but then he used to call us both _idiots_, didn't he?" He walked out and down the corridor to the coffee machine. This just might be one of the longest nights of his career and he needed to stay awake for it.

Back at his desk, he pulled out a blank sheet of paper and started to make some notes. First of all, the kidnapping had obviously been rigged so as to frame Sherlock. So, why did the little girl Claudette Bruhl scream when she saw Sherlock? What had she been told? Had her abductors worn masks? Could one of them have looked like Sherlock, been dressed to look like him? Moriarty knew Sherlock's ways, his clothing, his behaviour. What if he'd used someone dressed as Sherlock to scare the child?

The girl had been so distressed that she made no sense at all the night when Sherlock tried to speak to her. The US Ambassador took her home- and sent her and her younger brother back to the USA the next morning, to stay with his divorced wife. So they couldn't find out more on that front, alas. _How convenient._ He speculated that someone might have suggested a rapid removal- that would be just like Moriarty. In hindsight, the whole exercise reeked of being stage managed by the man. Moriarty would have known that the US Ambassador would call on Holmes. Ever since the American banker had been saved from kidnappers by Sherlock, his reputation would make him the logical choice. And Sherlock had been brought into the case by SO6. It was only Mycroft's insistence that Lestrade manage Sherlock's relations with the Met which had brought his Murder Investigation Unit into the picture. _Again, Moriarty would have figured that out._

He banged the pen down on the desk in frustration. He had no _evidence_- just speculation. And that wasn't going to help Sherlock.

He was still thinking about it when there was a knock on the side of his open door. Lestrade looked up to see a young PC standing there. "Sorry to interrupt, sir, but the Chief Superintendent wants to see you in his office now. I'm to take you there."

That last statement confused Greg's tired mind. "I know the way, officer."

The PC looked embarrassed. "I know, sir; it's just I have my orders to…_escort_ you there."

_Oh shit._

Lestrade didn't say another word until he got into the Chief's office and the young lad closed the door behind him. The Chief's nose now wore a white bandage that showed off the purple emerging under both of his eyes. He looked bad, and mad, too- a scowl that would have told him all he needed to know, if he hadn't already figured it out.

"So, you can't even complete a simple arrest of an unarmed, handcuffed man. I heard that the gun had been found. What use are you, Lestrade?" The tape across his nose made his northern accent even more nasal.

Before he could reply, the Chief answered for him. "I'll tell you what sort of copper you are, Lestrade- and that's _worse_ than useless. Incompetence is something I've had to get used to- but this…this is _worse_." He gestured down at his desk. "Shall I read you a few choice extracts from this morning's _Sun_ newspaper? Turns out your mate Sherlock Holmes is a fraud. Hired an out of work actor, Richard Brook, to pretend he was this master criminal called James Moriarty. You know, the bloke that broke into the Bank of England, stole the Crown Jewels and opened the door to Pentonville Prison? Yeah, that bloke- the one we prosecuted, the one who walked free. He's not _real_, just a scheme cooked up in the brain of that nutter you've been working with for the past decade."

Greg's tired mind tried to process the significance of what the Chief had just said. Stunned, he grabbed the newspaper and scanned down the article. _Oh my God. _He had underestimated what Moriarty was capable of doing. He had been trying to figure out how to rescue Sherlock from the kidnapping case, never dreaming that it was about to get a whole lot worse.

"Yeah, well, that's just the first edition, Lestrade. Wait for the second edition when they can add in the details about Holmes avoiding arrest and running circles around the Met all night. This reporter Kitty Riley- she's already been on the phone to me asking for all sorts of facts and figures. While you've been wasting time chasing shadows, I've been doing some digging." The big man was now pacing in anger.

"Fifty two cases, Lestrade. _Fifty two bloody cases!_ It will take us _months_ of re-investigation. Convictions challenged, overturned too on all sorts of technicalities, not least of which is the impropriety of using a civilian to do police work. What were you thinking, Lestrade? What possible reason could be behind such stupidity?"

Greg finally found his voice. "It's not what you think, Chief. This…" he gestured at the paper "..is just another part of Moriarty's game. Sherlock's work with us has been the reason why my team has the best clear-up rate in the force."

The Chief just laughed. "You still don't get it? _That's because he was the one doing the crimes, you idiot!_"

Lestrade just crossed his arms in front of his chest. "You can investigate each and every one of those cases, sir, and you will find that they stand up in court. Sherlock Holmes is being victimised, framed for all this; it's part of Moriarty's plan to destroy him."

"Why are you so keen to defend him? Is there something going on between you two? Your Sergeant has suggested as much to me. Is he blackmailing you?"

"Don't be ridiculous. And don't believe everything you hear from Sally Donovan. She's been consumed by jealousy ever since Holmes first showed up at a crime scene and made her look like a fool."

"It's not her I'm worried about, Lestrade. It's _you_. If he isn't blackmailing you into this…then...I'll just ask you this once because that newspaper article says Holmes is a queer. You and he…aren't…an item, are you? Because I have to know the worst of this…the papers are going to go ballistic."

Greg was stunned by the accusation. He said very quietly, very firmly, "I am not a homosexual, and I have never had an improper relationship with Sherlock Holmes. I was a happily married man for nearly twenty years."

"Divorced recently, I hear."

Greg just closed his eyes and tried to get control of his temper. He was so close to adding more bruises to the man's face.

"Yeah, well, couldn't stop the wife being an idiot and falling in love with a gym instructor, could I? Not exactly anything to do with Holmes, sir. With respect, I don't think this is a fruitful topic of discussion. When these cases are investigated again, you'll see that the Met has nothing to worry about. The convictions will stand. The truth is that Holmes is innocent."

"That's not for you to decide, Lestrade. In fact, nothing of what is going to happen is any of your business anymore. You're suspended with immediate effect. My aide will escort you back to your desk and you can clear it now. Turn in your warrant card. You're done. I don't know how many months it will take to re-investigate fifty two cases, but you are on garden leave until it's over. Now get out of my sight, you sicken me."

oOo

He had never been one for a lot of personal items at work. So clearing his desk didn't take long. Under the watchful eye of the Chief's PC, he filled an empty cardboard box he nicked from the photocopying room with the few items he would miss. He knew better than to take any files or police information. When he woke up his PC screen to log off and close it down, he saw that it had already been done. The PC said quietly, "Protocol, sir. Password and log in have already been changed."

He felt like he was sleepwalking. The corridors of New Scotland Yard were familiar but somehow out of kilter as he went down in the lift and went to the front desk. The PC reminded him to leave his warrant card with the desk Sergeant.

"I'm sorry sir, but you no longer qualify for a driver, so I've called you a taxi. It's waiting outside the barrier by the pavement."

He was grateful for the gesture. At this hour of the morning trying to hail one on the street would take time, and they were as keen to see the back of him as he was to get out of the place. As he got in the back and put his box on the seat beside him, he could see the faint streaks of dawn lighting up the windows of New Scotland Yard.

He gave the driver his flat address and the cab started to move off. He felt defeated. He felt exhausted. _They're going to destroy him, piece by piece. They don't even realise that they are Moriarty's pawns. _Now that he was stuck in limbo, there was no one willing to see it from Sherlock's point of view. He wouldn't be surprised if the Chief decided to release the story about the dead man at Portland Square being attributed to Sherlock. _Make him into a deranged murderer; easier to hate then_.

The thought of that made him very, very angry. Suddenly, anger kicked in with an adrenaline rush. He couldn't just go home and sit on the side lines watching the destruction of a great man unfold before his eyes- it was just too much to ask. He tapped on the window to get the cabbie's attention.

"Sorry, changed my mind. Can you head to St Bartholomew's hospital, please?"

The very least he could do was to see what the ME had discovered about the dead body. There had to be some proof that Sherlock wasn't involved. And he'd find a way to get that to the newspapers. Over the years, he'd built up some contacts of his own whose discretion could be counted on. He would need to be careful. Suspended cops who broke the rules were dealt with harshly. But, he didn't care anymore. His professional reputation lay in tatters until Sherlock's could be repaired. He was going to do what he could for both of their sakes.

oOo

"I'm grateful, Miss Hooper, that you were here at this early hour and willing to let me see the body."

She looked tired and distracted; her eyes were a little red. Well, he figured he must look like hell, too. He'd never been through such a bad night before in his life, so he wasn't going to pass judgement on someone else.

Molly gave Greg one of her shy tentative smiles. She seemed a bit nervous. Had someone told her that Lestrade was suspended? He hoped not, he didn't want to get her into trouble. But his instinct to protect her was weaker than his need to know and to prove that Sherlock wasn't involved in the fatal shooting.

She wheeled out the trolley and pulled the sheet back. "I haven't started the autopsy yet; been…um..busy…tonight. Sorry."

"It's alright. I just need to understand how he died. Can you tell from the wounds?"

She stepped up to the corpse and examined the wounds. "Well, obviously they're bullet wounds. Probably a rifle- you can tell by the exit sites. If it was a handgun, they'd be bigger." She struggled to turn the body on its side, so Greg helped, his hands recoiling a bit from how cold the flesh felt. "Sorry, he's still in full rigor. That's why we won't do the actual autopsy for a couple more hours." She bent over to look at the entry wounds more closely. "Yes, definitely a rifle. No stippling, no powder burns." She looked thoughtful. "Looking at where the bullets went in and where they excited, definitely high velocity- very little track deviation inside the body. Basically, a rifle bullet is going so fast that it just smashes everything out of the way and exits in a straight line. A hand gun bullet can't get that much speed, so it tends to …skitter around inside, inflicting a lot of tissue damage along the way. I once saw a bullet entry wound in the shoulder exit out by the thigh. Strange…."

Lestrade decided to lay his cards on the table. He needed someone else to be on Sherlock's side when they tried to pin this death on him. "Miss Hooper. At some point in the next few hours, someone from the police might try to claim that this man died because Sherlock Holmes used a hand gun to kill him."

Molly raised wide eyes to Lestrade's. "But..but…that's ridiculous!"

"Yes, well you and I know that, but there are a lot of people who want to cause him problems- including someone called James Moriarty." He heard her gasp. Did she know him? How? Greg was puzzled.

"So, whatever story the police try to spin, I want you to get the truth out there. Will you do that for me? For him?"

She blushed. "Of course.. You can count on me."

He smiled. And then decided that her trust needed to be reciprocated. "Those same police will tell you that I was suspended tonight, because of Sherlock's involvement in so many of my cases over the years. So, strictly speaking, I am not allowed to be here, nor are you allowed to be showing me this body. But, I had to know. And to know that they won't be able to twist this so that Sherlock somehow becomes responsible for this death. Will you keep my visit secret?"

She was looking at him with a steady, calm gaze. "You can trust me, Detective Inspector. I will tell the truth about this, even if they don't want to hear it. And when they come to ask me about his role in those cases, they will get the truth from me, nothing else. I promise."

"They will try to make him into a monster, Miss Hooper. I hope you won't be distressed by it. Sherlock Holmes is a great man. I'm not going to be able to say that in public- by putting me on suspension, they've muzzled me. But they can't touch you, so just tell them the truth."

"I _know_, detective inspector. And I will, I promise."

At that Greg turned toward the door, only to be stopped by her reaching out and putting a hand on his arm as he passed. "Um… you need to do something before you leave, Detective Inspector. There's…something in the lab…upstairs. You know, the one that Sherlock uses…." She let go.

He thought through what she said, and then a gentle smile emerged on both of their faces. "Thank you, Miss Hooper."

oOo

As he came down the hall, he realised that the lights in the lab were on. _A good sign!_ As he came up to the doors, Greg heard an odd noise. Thump…THUMP…thump…THUMP. Over and over. He pushed open the door and looked down the long row of lab tables to see what was causing the noise. There, sitting on the floor with his back against one side of cupboards, Sherlock was throwing a small rubber ball hard against the floor so that it bounced up against the cupboard opposite him. He caught it on the rebound and sent it back again. Over and over, his eyes were not directly watching the ball. He did not seem to be aware of Greg's presence in the room. Thump…THUMP …thump…THUMP.

Greg drew in a deep breath. _Now that I've found him, just what the hell am I going to say to him?_


	66. Chapter 66

**Chapter Sixty Six: The Great Man (Part Three)**

* * *

"Come to arrest me _again_, Lestrade?" If there was a tinge of irony in the baritone, Greg wouldn't blame him. Thump…THUMP …thump…THUMP. Sherlock continued throwing the ball.

"Can't- I've been suspended; they've taken away my warrant card. So, you're safe from me."

"Not going to tell anyone then?" It was asked in a flat monotone. The brunet kept up the rhythm of the ball bouncing against the cupboard opposite, catching it with one hand and rapidly sending it back again. Greg had once watched Sam spend an entire afternoon on the patio doing that with a tennis ball against the back garden wall. He realised then just how done in Sherlock was. He needed the routine physical activity as a form of self-stimulation, to calm his mind. _Wish it had the same effect on me._

"Where's John?"

"Minding his own business, as you should be, Detective Inspector."

"Sherlock, I just told you that I've been suspended. I'm not here in an official capacity." He came down the aisle and sat down beside Sherlock. "I'm here because I am your friend and I want to help."

Sherlock caught the ball and stopped. "Too late. Damage is done. This is end game."

Greg sighed. "For us both, if you don't figure out how to rescue your reputation. The Chief delighted in showing me a few choice bits from tomorrow's Sun newspaper, but my guess is that you know all about that. Then he spent ten minutes chewing me out for a decade's worth of work with you. So, it's not just all about you, Sherlock."

"I know that." The ball resumed its trajectory. Thump…THUMP….thump.

Greg intercepted the ball on its return journey. "What can I do to help? I mean it; I can't just sit at home in my flat pretending this isn't happening."

"Stay out of it. That way, you can keep John safe. That's all that matters now."

Greg digested that. "You intend going after Moriarty, don't you? A confrontation?"

"Good to see that my powers of deduction have _finally_ penetrated that thick skull of yours."

Greg thought about it. "You're just daft enough to get yourself killed. Don't do this alone."

Sherlock started throwing the ball again. "I have to. I won't expose John any more to this. Can't. Won't. You can't get involved either, or you won't ever stand a chance of re-instatement. And nothing you say is going to change my mind."

"Who the hell was the French guy, dead at Portland Square?"

At the _non sequitur_, Sherlock caught the ball and looked over at Greg. "An assassin. Moriarty's had a batch of them keeping an eye on me for the past couple of months- all part of his 'gamesmanship'. I realised tonight that each of them wants to make sure I survive because they think Moriarty gave me something of value. But they will all happily kill one another if they think that one of them is getting what he led them to believe I have. He was killed by one of the other assassins."

Greg heaved a sigh of relief. "Well, Molly says the ballistics and autopsy will support your version. That's one less thing Sally Donovan can pin to your tail. But if she finds something incriminating at Baker Street, she won't stop to think it might have been planted by Moriarty. She's after your scalp."

"Don't hate her, Lestrade."

That startled the DI. Of all the things that Sherlock could have said, he'd have bet that was the least likely. He exploded. "Why the _hell_ not? She's like a bitch on heat, she's so excited to have a chance to do you down."

The ball resumed its journey. "She's doing her job, Lestrade. It's not her fault that she is being manipulated by Moriarty. He's been doing that to everyone- me, you, John…even my brother. John was angry with you at the flat, but I'm not. I don't hold you responsible. It's not your fault that Moriarty is doing this. If you let sentiment get in the way, then you won't be able to defend yourself properly when the charges are made against you."

"Speaking of your brother…"

Sherlock interrupted him, "I'd rather not."

"Sherlock, if he can help, he needs to do it soon, or there won't be any reputation of yours left to salvage."

"Leave him out of this. He proved he can't handle Moriarty- or do I need to remind you yet again about Pentonville, the Tower and the Bank of England? Those were the consequence of his attempt to deal with Moriarty. The ultimate two fingers to the British establishement, I'd say."

Greg sighed. "I'm going to call him."

Sherlock caught the ball and then looked at him. "No, you are not. Even if you do, he won't return the call."

Greg was aghast. "What, _he's_ left you high and dry? You're on your own on this? I don't believe that. He's been big Brother too long to abandon you now."

"Let's just say we had a major difference of opinion and leave it at that. He won't, he _can't_ lift a finger to intervene, or it will cost him his life's work. I don't want that. And I don't need his help."

"What are you going to do?"

"Wait for the sun to come up, arrange to see Moriarty and solve this once and for all."

"And how are you going to do that?"

"It's time you were going, Lestrade. Someone's going to figure out you've been poking your nose into places you are no longer authorised to be. So, get back to your flat. Time to be seen to be playing the role of the suspended DI. I need you to. When they come with questions about the cases, you have to be seen as a reliable witness- for both our sakes. Go, now."

"Sherlock…."

"Do you want to be locked up for interfering with an investigation? How about adding perverting the course of justice to the list of your misdemeanors? Get out of here, Lestrade. Every moment you are in this building, it's making your task of rehabilitation that much harder. You _cannot_ be seen to be taking sides, especially not mine, especially not today."

"What happened to the assassin's gun? I assume he had a gun on him? Miss Hooper didn't mention it."

"It's in my coat pocket. _Relax_, I have no intention of using it to kill Moriarty. If it were that simple, then I am sure that _lots_ of other people would have tried before me. I have to defeat him in a way that …will work. And, no, I am not going to explain anything more. Just leave, now."

"Sherlock, if you fail- if you can't beat him. If there's no way to repair the damage he's done…what happens next?"

"There is no _next_. I meant what I said, Lestrade. This is _end game._ Now go home. I'm done talking." The ball resumed its path. Thump…THUMP…thump…THUMP. After five minutes of sitting there in silence,broken only by the sound of the ball, Greg intercepted it and demanded that Sherlock talk to him, explain what he was going to do. Sherlock wouldn't look at him, wouldn't answer-just held out his hand for the ball. Greg gave up, and banged the ball angrily down against the floor. Sherlock caught the rebound and continued.

Thump…THUMP…thump...THUMP. It was still going when the lab door swung shut behind Greg. He knew he had to find John, but had no idea where to start looking.


	67. Chapter 67

**Chapter Sixty Seven: **

**The Great Man (Part Four)**

* * *

The momentum of his anger and frustration with Sherlock carried him right down the stairs to street level before he ran out of steam. Now standing on the pavement outside St. Bart's hospital, Greg tried to figure out what to do next. Sherlock could be so _infuriating._ He was only trying to help, but if the man wouldn't acknowledge that fact, then there wasn't a whole lot he could do about it. He tried to sort through his emotions. He was angry at the whole scenario- being pushed by procedure into arresting Sherlock, angry at being manipulated by Donovan, the Chief, even Moriarty. He was angry at himself. And burning away in the back of his head was the knowledge that he was just about to lose his entire career, despite having invested everything of himself in the Met. When he stopped thinking about himself, he was furious with Sherlock for being hell-bent on confronting the Irishman on his own. Tired, angry and just so frustrated he could kick something, Greg was coming close to the edge.

He glanced around in the early morning light, looking for somewhere to sit and calm down. His eye was caught first by the phone box on his right- nowhere to sit. Then he saw the weathered wooden benches against the wall- no, too exposed to the wind that was now whipping up the pavement. To the left he saw the bus shelter. Yes, that would do. He sat on the folding seat put in by London Transport, grateful for protection. It was promising to be one of those irritating London days- grey skies, the odd brief shower, then occasional sunny spells, but a strong biting wind. It suited his mood- all over the place, unable to make its mind up.

He took a deep breath. _Get a grip._ He'd be no good for anything if he couldn't calm down enough to think things through. The only one he knew could actually stop Sherlock was his brother. It would be a drastic solution- and Sherlock would probably never trust him again if he got Mycroft to lock him up somewhere safe from Moriarty's plots. _Tough. He might be pissed off with me, but he'll still be alive. _He pulled his phone out, scrolled down the contact list and found Mycroft's personal number.

Two rings and then the voice of his PA. "How can I help you, Detective Inspector? Or should I say, Mister Lestrade?" It was said kindly and with some sympathy, but it still made his blood boil. He growled, "So, Mycroft's got spies to tell him the latest Yard gossip, but he's still not doing anything to protect Sherlock?"

There was a little huff on the other end of the line. "I can pass that message onto Mr Holmes, if you'd like, but is there anything substantive you would like to add?" Her tone was now professionally cool.

"Does that mean he won't talk to me directly, because he's got you to hide behind?"

"Mr Holmes is in a meeting. I can pass a message onto him, but he is unlikely to be able to return your call anytime soon."

"_FINE." _Greg spat out the word, knowing that the tone conveyed that it was far from fine. "Yes, do that: tell him to get off his backside and get Sherlock locked up somewhere safe. _NOW_. His brother is at Bart's, if he doesn't actually know that. He's only got himself to blame if everything goes to hell in the next couple of hours." He stabbed the key to end the call. He noticed a woman who had arrived at the bus shelter- the next bus was probably due any minute. She gave him a strange look, must have overheard his conversation. The bus arrived, and she got on. He stayed seated, trying to think his way out of an increasingly tight corner.

For the second time in the past fifteen minutes, Greg knew that he had failed to connect with a Holmes. He was running out of options. If Big Brother was sitting on his hands, the only one Greg knew able to talk Sherlock out of something crazy was John. So, if he wanted to stop Sherlock, he was going to have to locate the doctor. The last time Greg had seen him he was attached to Sherlock's wrist, claiming to be a hostage. Now he was unattached. "Minding his own business" is what Sherlock had said. What the hell did _that_ mean? For the whole time that Lestrade had known John Watson, Sherlock _was_ his business. John's world revolved around the man. He could not, not for a single moment, believe that John would have stopped trying to help Sherlock get out of this mess. No matter what Sherlock said or did, Watson's loyalty went deep enough to survive whatever his flatmate tried to use to deter him. Maybe the best thing that Greg could do at this point was just to put the two of them back together again.

If he was going to find John, he needed to know what was happening. For all he knew, Watson might have already been caught by the police and was sitting in a cell somewhere. That made him remember something that Sherlock said about the assassins. Moriarty had led them to believe that Sherlock had something valuable, back in the flat. Something worth killing each other rather than let it fall into someone else's hands. So, what was it? He wondered what the Crime Scene Examiners might have turned up. That report was probably sitting on his desk, because the news about his suspension probably would not have spread widely yet- it was still too early. Most of the Murder Investigation Teams wouldn't be in.

That thought was a fuse that led to an extraordinary realisation. _There is an advantage to being sacked in the middle of the night- most people won't know yet. _He wondered if he just might be brazen enough to walk back into the Yard and see what had turned up. Maybe he could convince DI Dimmock to tell him what was going on. He also knew how lax most of the team were- someone on the floor would have been stupid enough, or tired enough, to forget to log off. So even if they'd taken his user name and password off, he'd still probably be able to finesse computer access.

So it was that twenty three minutes later, Greg Lestrade walked into New Scotland Yard with his usual take-away coffee in his hands and nodded at the new shift's desk sergeant. Just like every morning when he came in balancing a coffee, newspaper and fumbling for the pass that he knew must be somewhere, the sergeant hit the security gate release and waved him through. _Thank God we're all so bloody predictable._

The open plan room was nearly empty- just two detective constables looking tired and grumpy from being on an all-nighter. Greg scanned the evidence board at the far end with Sherlock's photo taking pride of place, the position usually reserved for the prime suspect. Nothing new had been added since he last looked, which gave him some comfort. At least it proved that John was not yet in custody. As he turned away from the board, he caught sight of Dimmock sitting in his own office, three doors down from Greg's; he looked tired, even at this distance. Hoping that he hadn't been noticed, Greg slipped into his own office, where he saw a file sitting on the desk. He was leafing through it, scanning for anything that the Crime Scene Examiners turned up that would have been worth killing for, when Dimmock popped his head around the office door.

"I thought you'd been…sent home?" It was a cautious query, neutral in tone.

"Yeah, well, you know how it is …loose ends need tying up." Greg hoped that was sufficiently vague. Before Dimmock could reply, Greg resumed. "The dead guy at Portland Square- he was a French assassin, linked to the Irish bomber- Moriarty."

Dimmock's eyes widened, "How the hell did you find that out?"

"I have my sources. It will check out. The ballistics report- you put a rush on it?"

"Yes, of course, we need to know if Holmes did it."

"Well, you can relax. The autopsy report shows it was done by a sniper- high velocity rifle."

"You've been busy…" Now there was a flare of suspicion in the young DI's tone.

"Did you really expect me to sit in my kitchen while all this is going on? Would _you_, if our positions were reversed?" Greg hoped that by building some rapport it would be harder for Dimmock to report him to the Chief.

The younger man grimaced. "Probably not, but then I've only done a few cases with Holmes; he's half your bloody career. So, I get why you'd want him to be innocent. That's why they've taken you off the case- you can't be expected to be impartial."

Greg realised that Dimmock thought that he'd only been removed from this particular case, not suspended from his post. That would give him more time. He pushed the file into Dimmock's hands. "That's the CS report on 221b. They didn't find anything- which is definitely wrong. There's something there that is worth assassins killing each other for- so I suggest you send someone back over there to give it a proper going over. Someone other than Anderson. If you think I can't be neutral, then you haven't seen the depth of his animosity."

DI Dimmock gave a tired smile. "Holmes has that effect on people- there are at least a dozen coppers in this building who would love to see him in the dock. He really does know how to get up people's noses."

Greg ignored that, and remembered what Sherlock had nicknamed the man now standing in front of him - _dimwit_. For once, he hoped Sherlock's assessment was accurate, because that might give him more room to manoeuver. "Have there been any leads on Watson's whereabouts?"

Dimmock looked puzzled. "According to your sergeant, the guy was last seen handcuffed to Holmes. You were there, remember?"

"Yeah, but get real. Sherlock would get out of those cuffs without too much trouble. He's able to pick locks on almost every door I've ever seen, so a pair of handcuffs won't take him long. If I know him, and I do, then he will want to put some distance between him and the good doctor."

"Why would he want to do that? You heard him- Watson's a hostage."

Greg snorted. "Don't be an idiot, Dimmock. Watson chinned the Chief because he wanted to stay close to Sherlock. The 'hostage' label was Sherlock's version- a way of keeping the doctor as the innocent in this. He wanted Watson free- and the danger Sherlock is in now will make him want to push his friends away."

"Danger? What danger?"

"Look, Dimmock- this whole scene is…well, it's complicated. Holmes has been at war with Moriarty- you remember him?" He said it patiently.

"Of course I remember him. The guy robbed the Bank of England and the Crown Jewels, for God's sake."

"And walked free. Holmes has been trying to catch up with him." Greg gestured at the file in Dimmock's hands. "And Moriarty's not stupid. He's _framing_ Sherlock; setting him up and making us do his dirty work for him. And, like the idiots he keeps telling us we are, we are going along with the scam- doing everything that lunatic Irishman wants us to do. Come on, I'll show you." He walked over to the evidence board, and started to take Dimmock through it. At every step along the way he offered an alternative view to what Donovan had told Dimmock's team last night.

The open plan office behind them was filling up. It was almost nine thirty, and the MIT members were getting stuck into the day's work. A few were standing around one desk, reading over the shoulder of a chap who had brought in the Sun newspaper. Unbeknownst to Lestrade, one set of eyes had found his back and were observing his every move. PC Hanson had spent the night outside Lestrade's flat, waiting for the DI to arrive home. When he didn't show, he'd called into the desk sergeant only to be told his target had arrived at the office.

On the way into New Scotland Yard, he'd got on the phone to text his contact, the one who had made him watch for Lestrade's return. Within minutes, a call came in reply. He took this one outside on the pavement, before going into the Yard. An odd voice, protected by a voice synthesiser, was on the other end.

"It's show time, policeman plod! I need you to get close enough to him to put a bullet in him; if you don't hear from me after 10.15, then kill Lestrade."

"Whoa- just wait a minute! I only ever agreed to keep an eye on the guy!"

The weird voice on the phone just laughed. "Kill or be killed, matey, and as you need more incentive, I will throw in your wife and kiddies. So, pull the trigger, or my man's trigger finger will twitch for them. Don't worry. The gun you've been given has another person's prints on it- a certain consulting detective's prints. You won't get caught as long as you're discrete and leave the gun behind when you've done the deed."

The words echoed in his ears still. How had he ended up here? A gambling debt gone bad, an acceptance of a bribe- it was enough to turn him from an officer on one of the Murder Investigation Unit into a hired gun. The idea of his wife and the two girls now at risk was making his palms sweat. The small illegal weapon in his ankle holster weighed heavily, but doing the deed at the Yard was different from the guy's flat- it would be much harder to hide his role in it.

When Hanson got to his desk, Dimmock was frowning at Lestrade. Hanson moved over to the unoccupied desk nearest the pair, fishing for a file on it and then pretending to read its contents.

"So, Donovan's version and mine are equally possible. It's just that Moriarty is manipulating us all into believing that Holmes is the villain."

The other DI was not buying it outright, but he was listening.

"Come on, Dimmock- a man is innocent until proven guilty. You've seen him work. Right now, Sherlock could do with all the friends he's got on this force."

"Friends? I wouldn't have thought Holmes has many friends. He's too insufferable for that. _You_ are probably the closest thing to a friend he's got- you've put up with his ego for years." The younger man now looked speculatively at the older DI. "I don't suppose you've seen him since he escaped?"

At that question, a traitorous idea crept into Greg's thoughts. He could tell the Yard exactly where Sherlock was. It was a last ditch defence- get Sherlock taken into custody to protect him from whatever confrontation he was planning. Sherlock would never, ever forgive him. But, he'd be alive. And just maybe turning him in would re-establish some of his own credibility. Then when Sherlock was proved innocent, they could both be reinstated. He hated the very idea. Was he that desperate, yet? He wondered if he should play for a little bit more time.

Time was something that Hanson was running out of. He glanced at the clock over the evidence board- the third time in the past ten minutes. It had just gone a quarter to ten. The gun felt impossibly heavy, a ball and chain around his ankle, its weight reminding him of what he was going to have to do if his family was to survive this morning. He only hoped that his sweaty face and rumpled clothing would not attract attention; luckily, other officers had worked all night, too, so he didn't stand out like a sore thumb.

Dimmock was waiting for the answer to his question, watching Lestrade closely. Something must have shown in his expression, because it prompted a whispered explosion- "Oh, _shit_, you _have_ seen him. Lestrade, you _have_ to tell the Chief if you ever want to work here again."

Greg heard the comment, and finally realised it was the truth. He'd run out of options. He also remembered Sherlock's words: "_When they come with questions about the cases, you have to be seen as a reliable witness- for both our sakes_."

The best way to do that was to turn him in. However disloyal it might seem, it just might save Sherlock's life, so he could get a chance to defend himself. And it just might mean that they'd at least listen to Lestrade when he tried to explain a decade's worth of work with the consulting detective.

Lestrade nodded to Dimmock, and then before he could reply, Greg went into his office and picked up the phone. Hanson couldn't hear what was being said, he just watched as the clock hands moved inexorably on. Then Lestrade stood up, bending over his desk. "Yes sir, goodbye." That was loud enough to carry.

The DI came out. "Come on, Dimmock, I'll take you and one other officer with me." Hanson was nearest to the pair, so he said "I'll come with you, sir." Dimmock nodded and the three men set off down the corridor. Lestrade said grimly, "He was at St Bartholomew's Hospital when I last saw him. No big splash this time; I need an unmarked car."

Hanson responded. "Take mine; I'll drive."

At every red traffic light, Hanson took another look at his watch. They had just turned onto Fleet Street when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. When the traffic signal at the intersection with Farrington Street went yellow, Hanson stopped, pulling out his phone to see a new text message. He thumbed it open, scared witless that it was going to tell him that he was too late, he'd not followed instructions and that his family was now dead.

**10.12 Stand down. Mission accomplished. Ditch the evidence. **

He closed his eyes in relief, and they were still closed when the car driver leaned on his horn. "Alright, just give me a break," Hanson muttered. From the back seat, Lestrade snapped, "Just get a move on, will you? He might not still be there, given how long you're taking!"


	68. Chapter 68

**Got My Eye On You**

**Chapter Sixty Eight**

**The Great man (Fifth Part)**

* * *

By the time Hanson drove the car up to the entrance of St Barts, Lestrade was almost twitching with a sense of urgency. Ever since he told the Chief that he would bring Sherlock in, he'd been worrying about just how long Sherlock would take to set up his confrontation with Moriarty. When and where would he seek a showdown? It was just over ninety minutes since Greg had come down the stairs from the lab, leaving the consulting detective throwing the squash ball against the cupboards. And where the hell was John Watson?

Greg had never known Watson to be anything but loyal. Surely, he wouldn't have abandoned Sherlock at this stage? As the car had forced its way through London's morning rush hour traffic, he wondered about that. Sherlock clearly wanted John 'safe', whatever that meant. So, Greg assumed that he would have figured some way, some scheme to keep the doctor busy but out of the way, while he organised his meeting with the Irishman.

His instinct told him that Sherlock would engineer such a meeting on familiar territory. It would be important to that he could trust his surroundings, know every corridor, every staircase, exit and entrance. Given that Baker Street was off limits because it was being watched by the police, Greg thought Sherlock would try to find a way to lure Moriarty to Barts, if he could manage it. That was the reason why Greg believed it when he told the Chief that he would be able to arrest him.

As soon as the car turned into the road outside Barts, Lestrade threw off his seatbelt. "Once you've parked, you'll find us in the lab on the third floor. Come on, Dimmock." As the car rolled to a halt, Lestrade was already out and the other DI scrambled to follow. Grey clouds were spitting, so the pair hurried before the full shower caught them.

Greg strode into the main entrance of the hospital and noticed a small crowd of people standing about on the left of the foyer. He turned to the right, and put a hand on the double doors to the stairs, starting to push it open. _Stairs will be quicker than waiting for a lift._

"Just leave me alone. I need to stay here. I need to be with him."

Greg's brain heard it, taking a moment to process it as he started through the doors, and then realised it was John Watson's voice he was hearing. He stopped so suddenly that Dimmock walked straight into the back of him. It was John's voice, but there was something so very wrong with it that the sound stopped Greg dead in his tracks. Dimmock began to apologise, but Lestrade had already turned around and was back through the doors.

"Let me through; I'm a police officer." The order was snapped with all the command authority of a twenty-five year career in the Met. The crowd of medical workers parted, to reveal John sitting in a plastic chair. He was looking down at the floor, struggling to avoid the ministrations of a nurse, who was examining an angry red scraped section of John's forehead. "I'm sorry, but you _have_ to go to UCLH's A and E; this head injury must be looked at. You've probably got a concussion."

In a moment, Lestrade dropped to one knee in front of John and took him by the shoulders. The doctor did not lift his eyes, "Where is he, John? Where's Sherlock?"

A pair of dazed, red-rimmed eyes looked up at Greg, and then seemed to focus on him with some recognition. John's expression was shocked wide and vulnerable as he struggled to find words. "Why? I don't understand why. Why would he do that?"

"Do _what_, John? What's Sherlock done?"

Watson's face just crumpled.

"_TELL ME!" _Lestrade made no attempt to hide his fear.

The doctor just looked away, with a forlorn whisper, "why_ jump?_" The last word was uttered with such despair that it stunned Lestrade, who released John's shoulders and stood up. "Can anyone tell me what's going on?"

The nurse who had been trying to examine John's forehead spoke up. "There was …an incident. A man fell from the roof- onto the pavement just outside. He was brought in here and pronounced dead. Then Doctor Watson came in a minute or so later- like this, in shock and he needs to have that injury seen to. We don't have an Emergency Department here, so I've called an ambulance, but he's confused and uncooperative."

The words sank in, one at a time, as if Greg's brain couldn't quite catch up with his ears. Then he heard a voice which he realised was his own ask the question, "_Who_ died?"

The nurse looked at him, startled. "I thought that was why you were here. We called the police ten minutes ago to report the death. Enough people at the hospital recognised him, even as…damaged as he was by the fall. It was Sherlock Holmes."

Greg looked at her, trying to understand what she said. Then somewhere, somehow, training kicked in. "Where is he? Where's Sherlock? I need to see him for myself." The voice he heard in his ears was calm, determined and would not accept anything other than the truth from the woman who stood in front of him.

"His body's been moved downstairs to the mortuary. It's been identified formally by the pathologist, Doctor Hooper."

Lestrade turned away from the woman and started towards the doors. Behind him, he heard DI Dimmock say "Doctor John Watson, I am arresting you on the charge of assault and resisting arrest. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence." A part of Lestrade wanted to stop and tell Dimmock to stop being a prat, but a bigger part of him needed to ignore everything except what was waiting for him downstairs in the mortuary.

When he pushed open the double doors into the room where he and Sherlock had examined so many bodies, Greg had already considered a dozen different scenarios, ranging from mistaken identity to the idea that somehow the body would turn out to be that of James Moriarty. Then Molly Hooper turned around to face him. One look at her made him realise that only one of the scenarios was actually true. She looked as devastated as John had been.

"Stop right there, Detective Inspector." She crossed her arms around a clipboard she was carrying.

"Miss Hooper, _is it true?_ " He cast his eyes about the room, the stainless steel autopsy table was empty, but he could see it was still wet. "Where is he?"

She struggled to find the words. "It's true; he's dead. I've done the formal identification and notified his next of kin. His brother. Left a message, he was in a meeting."

"I need to see him. I need to see him myself." His voice cracked on the last word. The unmitigated _awfulness _ of it all was beginning to seep into his voice, his bones, his soul.

"I can't do that. I will tell you what I told John Watson. I've done the formal identification. The paperwork is done- death certificate signed. You don't need to see him."

"Yes, I do. I really do."

"No. I won't let you."

That penetrated through the gauze of grief that was winding itself around Greg's mind. "Why not?"

The pathologist gave him a gentle look. She tried to say something but the words got caught. She took two quick breaths, and tried again. "Because you don't want to have that as the last image in your mind about him. Remember him as he was, before this. Falling sixty feet is not…kind on a human body, Detective Inspector. I…care…enough about him to want to protect him from being that horrible an image for you."

It was the longest speech he'd ever heard out of Miss Hooper. She was usually so tongue tied in Sherlock's presence; even that Christmas when Sherlock had been so horrible in his deductions about her that he'd apologised. It made Greg realise the pain she was trying to protect him from. All he could think of saying was "_You_ had to see him that way."

"I see dead bodies every day- in every state of death, destruction and decomposition. Anyway, I don't count. Didn't count, not that way, to Sherlock. He didn't think of me the way I know he did you. John and you, you counted. I was just…useful to him. I know that. This is …one more _useful_ thing I can do for him now. I couldn't stop him from doing it, but I can treat him with respect now, and keep him alive for you, at least in your memory."

Greg stood staring at her in the silence. The awfulness of the silence. He felt the long night of anxiety and stress escaping through a shuddering tremor in his left knee. He felt sick to his stomach. She held his gaze for a moment longer and then broke it to look away. "I couldn't stop John Watson from seeing it happen. According to the people upstairs, he saw Sherlock fall. I can't erase that from his mind…I so wish I could. I know Sherlock would not have wanted that. He _cared_ for John." At this, her eyes filled up and tears slipped past her eye lids. "I can't leave here. There are…other things I need to do here. Can I ask you to do something _now_ for me?"

"What?"

"Find out what happened on the roof."

He realised with a jolt that he'd been so focused on his disbelief about Sherlock that he'd actually lost focus completely. Her request made him realise that if he didn't do something soon, he was going to fall apart. And he couldn't do that. Not yet, anyway. Professionally speaking, he just had to hang on, get through it. Find out what had happened. Process the scene. Do his job.

He heard a voice, that baritone voice, in his head. _It's The Work. Lestrade. In the end, that's all that matters._

Later…later there would be time for what ifs, for recriminations and regrets. It was the least he could do for Sherlock, now. It might be that last crime scene he'd be on for a very long time. H_e'd want me to do it. _Greg nodded to her, and got back to work.

* * *

**Author's note: ** OK, just an epilogue left in this story arc. Then in a while, _A Good Man_, or what happened after the Fall, before the Return.


	69. Chapter 69

**Chapter Sixty Nine**

**The Great Man- Epilogue**

* * *

Lestrade met Dimmock coming down the stairs to the mortuary as he went up them. The younger DI explained. "I've sent Hanson off to the Snow Hill Station with Watson; he'll process him on charges."

Lestrade shook his head in exasperation. "He's in no state to talk; he needs a doctor. Didn't you hear that nurse?"

"The station will get him seen to- just like any other arrested suspect."

Before Lestrade could respond to the idea that Watson should be considered a suspect, Dimmock continued. "Was she right? Was it Holmes?"

There must have been something in his expression that confirmed it for Dimmock, who drew in a deep breath. "I can't say that I'm surprised. I found this on the seat next to John. Have you seen it?"

Greg looked down at the morning's Metro newspaper, folded open to an inside page, the headline in bold type: **_FAKE DETECTIVE FOOLED THE YARD FOR YEARS_**, with that stupid photo of Sherlock in the deerstalker hat, in front of the Met press conference when the Mafioso's arrest was announced.

Lestrade just snapped, "Stuff that paper where it belongs- in a rubbish bin. We've got a crime scene to investigate on the roof of this building."

The DI's aggressive tone brought Dimmock up sharp, but he followed Lestrade up the stairs as he pulled his phone out of his pocket.

By the time Lestrade reached the final flight of stairs, he was puffing. But he stopped to put a pair of latex gloves on- the same pair he'd taken with him to Baker Street what seemed half a lifetime ago. As he came to the metal door to the roof, he saw it was unlocked and ajar. He stepped out onto the roof, with Dimmock close behind. The shower had passed, and the roof was now bathed in bright sunshine. But all that was noticed in a moment, as both men's eyes came to rest on a body and the blood pool behind his head.

Dimmock was on the phone a second later, calling it in. Lestrade walked over and looked down at the shocked wide brown eyes, the navy wool coat, expensive suit. Then he saw the silver of the gun lying a few feet away where it must have fallen.

"Another body- do you think Holmes killed him?"

Lestrade did not trust himself to answer his colleague, because if he had, it could be held against him. So, he just answered, "This is James Moriarty." He pulled his own phone out and took a picture, and then found the most recent phone number he'd rung, sending the photo with a text.

**11.04 Tell Mycroft, he's too late. They're both dead. **

Then he bent down to look at the weapon. His head was already processing the possibilities and discarding some along the way, but he kept coming back to it. The logical conclusion was that this was the gun from the assassin who was shot last night, and that Sherlock had used it to kill Moriarty._ He said he wouldn't. I heard him say it to me not more than two hours ago. What changed his mind? Is that why he decided to …to jump? _ Lestrade knew that Sherlock was not a killer. Yet, he also knew that Sherlock had no particular regard for his own life. Too willing to risk everything, to not care about the consequences until later.

He took a shaky breath. There would be no _later _for the man he had come to know, to respect, to …Greg couldn't find the right word. Nothing fit. Nothing covered their unique relationship. He realised his vision was blurring, so he stood up and walked away. _Get a grip._ He knew that he had only moments left before the Met team arrived and the case would be taken from him. Without an arrest, without exoneration, Sherlock's death meant that his time left as a Detective Inspector with the Met was coming to an end. And it didn't matter, not one bit. What mattered was that Sherlock was dead. And he knew that the Met would have Sherlock in their sights for this murder, and that of the Frenchman last night. It was all too easy. The Chief would be delighted. Wrapped up and solved, the Met got their man, and didn't even have to put him or Moriarty on trial. Saved the public purse the cost, and Sherlock would never get the chance to argue his case.

Greg's train of thought was getting more fraught by the second, so he took a few steps further away from Dimmock and the body. That's when his glance fell on the small black object off to the right, not far from the edge. He walked over, and recognised it as Sherlock's phone. Greg had only seconds to decide, but he made his choice even faster, picking it up and putting it in his pocket. He glanced back at Dimmock who was still examining Moriarty's body. Greg knew that he'd just stolen evidence from a crime scene. Enough to get him fired, not just suspended. He didn't care. Sherlock's phone would tell him something of what had happened, he was sure of it, somehow. If it ended up in the hands of the police, who knows what would happen to the truth, if it was inconvenient to their views.

He took the next few steps to the roof edge and the low parapet. A deep breath, and then he looked over the side. Even from this distance he could see a splash of colour on the pavement. He and Dimmock had run into the ground floor entrance, right by it, without realising it was there. The rain that had been falling when they first arrived would have disturbed the pattern. He needed to tell Dimmock that the team should take photos before another shower disturbed it more. His vision blurred again, and he stepped back from the edge and the sight, pinching his nose and trying to get himself back under control.

Whatever thoughts he was wrestling to control were shattered when the metal roof door was thrown wide open with enough force to bang against the brick wall, and out poured men. Not the uniformed police that Lestrade was expecting- these men were in suits, with the lean and vigilant look that Greg had come to recognise as the hallmark of Mycroft's minions. _Too late_. He looked away from them, back over the rooftops that surround St Bartholomew's hospital. He wondered if Mycroft would even bother to make an appearance.

"Please step away from the parapet, sir." The clipped tones betrayed the speaker's public school education. Greg just complied and turned to face the man.

The DI's tone of voice betrayed his resignation. "I won't even bother to ask you who you are- probably an alias anyway." Greg looked at the innocuous face- the sort you'd see and instantly forget. _Where does Mycroft find them?_

"You and DI Dimmock need to follow my colleague back down the stairs. We need to clear the roof, so our people can process the scene."

Dimmock looked annoyed, even from five yards away. He'd been herded away from the body by two operatives. He snapped, "And what about the Met team that's on its way?"

"They've been stood down. This person was a wanted criminal in thirty two countries, so his death is a matter for my service to investigate. The Police Commissioner has handed over jurisdiction. You may leave now." The last word was given just enough stress to ensure that neither DI could mistake it for anything other than an order.

That's when the penny dropped. Greg experienced an "OH" moment, as he used to call Sherlock's intuitive leaps that made his deductive processes unique. Mycroft knew all along. He was simply watching and waiting for this to happen. For Moriarty to turn up dead, killed by someone who could not be traced back to any legal service. Someone whose reputation was already so damaged that it wouldn't matter if he took the blame for this one, too.

Greg realised now that Mycroft Holmes had sat by and _watched_ the confrontation unfold, because he knew it would end with Moriarty's death. And that was more important than the risk to Sherlock. He tried to swallow the taste of bile that was now in his throat. What was it that Sherlock had said last night about his brother? They'd had a difference of opinion. _He can't lift a finger to intervene or it will cost him his life's work._ And then Sherlock said he didn't need his brother's help.

He felt the agent's hand grip his elbow. "You need to leave _now_."

He looked at the man. "I want you to give a message to Mycroft Holmes. Will you do that for me?"

As the man nodded curtly, the DI's fist connected with the side of the agent's temple, and he dropped like a stone. Lestrade walked past the startled look of the other agents and nodded a goodbye to Dimmock, who looked equally stunned.

As he left the roof, Greg couldn't help but think that Sherlock would have approved.


End file.
